Skagos was almost lovely in Summer. Almost kind.

He stared across the waters, his hand upon the nape of Hephaestion's neck, rubbing the fur.

Twice he had stood here and stared across the waves contemplating his place in the world. Contemplating Skagos. However, that had been as a younger man. Full of vim and ambition. Had he not accomplished his ambitions long ago? Did any on the islands of the archipelago eat human flesh? Were his islands not some of the greatest real estate in the North, if not the realm entire?

Did he not sire sons up sons to continue his line? Did he not fall in love a fine woman to guide his children once he was dead. And yet he was always yearning for purpose, for direction. The next great journey to take, the next building to complete, the next task to finish.

Here he was at the end of ambition. And he found it wanting.

The wind picked up his hair, shorter than the last two times he stood upon this rock and watched the sea. The view was filled not with water and harsh black sand, but houses and buildings and ships.

He should have felt pride at the sight. But his madness played at his mind, gnawing at the edges of sense and reason. He saw them all burning, covered in ash and snow. Fire and smoke in the air, water still as ice.

He should not leave this place — his home for the last sixteen coming on seventeen years. He could not escape the thought that he would not return to here. That he would never see his sons and daughter again, nor his wife. Nor his people.

Would he see autumn? At all, even in King's Landing?

"Lord Magnar." Said a voice, one he had long recognised from Ibben.

"Brandon. Have we not known each other long enough to ditch the formality?" Asked Cregan, turning to his vassal. Lord Karts of Deepdown.

"Perhaps my lord, but there are so many Cregan's now. There is the bastard of Lord Stark, the Karstark one, the Umber spare of a spare, the Sunderland son. My son." Said Karts, almost adding that last one as an afterthought.

"Speak not to me of fucking Lord Stark." Growled Cregan, his hand gripping the neck of Hephaestion harshly, the unicorn paying no mind to its own grip.

"My lord?" Asked Karts.

"He commands me to give up his bastard to the wall. He forces me to King's Landing with one hand and threatens my kin with the other." Cregan ranted, turning at last to the once mercenary, now lord.

"My lord? King's Landing?" Asked Karts. "Is that why you summoned here to Kingsdown?"

"Yes my lord. I need good men and fine ships to follow me to the capital. Armed and ready for the viper's nest." Cregan ordered.

"I can have two hundred men gathered in seven days, ready to leave the islands. Veterans of New Ibbish." Karts replied, thumping his chest above his heart in pride.

"I do not want just the old. Such men would be older than even me. And some should remain here ready," Cregan added, thinking on the expense.

"A few eager lads wanting to see the capital. Stout men of five and ten years to learn from those of thirty or more." Karts added with a nod.

"Good," Cregan once more turned to the sea. "I shall be gone for... quite some time no doubt, till I piss off his grace in the capital and he remembers my many slights. You will aid my son when necessary, and show restraint where not. Follow him as if he were me."

"Of course my lord." Karts nodded.

"Keep an eye on Lord Stane. He has forgiven me nought for taking Sahn keep from him after the second rebellion." Said Cregan.

"By your word," Karts said eventually.

Cregan paused on the last order he was to give.

"Lord Karts. A storm is gathering in Westeros. From the North or south, I do not know where the first bolt shall strike. However, rest assured, my islands shall be pulled into the eye of the storm. I need the levies ready at a moments notice; I need ships ready to move either south or north. I need men at arms ready to depart a day or two after the white raven returns to this place." Cregan ordered.

"My lord... The King beyond the wall? Mance Rayder?" Asked Karts.

"Him... and Others." Cregan almost laughed to himself, but the situation demanded a certain amount of gravity.

The shadows of a passing cloud moved over his face, and seemed to still the harsh waters of the Bay of seals for a moment, freezing the image in a single clear moment. The wind died, the bird song and breathing of Hephaestion stilled. He closed his eye, the mess and scar tissue beneath his bandage over his missing one moving and writhing.

The silence is easy. It is breaking it that was hard.

He wanted to say so much to Rickard. Assure him that he cared for his second son, that he had not focused all of his efforts and hopes into his first. That he loved him, that he was not merely the shadow of a departed sister or an elder brother. He wanted to tell him that he would see him again when he came back from the capital. That he would be a knight or anything he might want to be.

But even that was a lie. He could not be his heir so long as Triston lived. He could not be a knight, for he was a Skagosi. Sometimes in the haze of the hearth fire late at night, in the shadows of cinders and ash he saw Sophia standing next to him, the daughter he had twice.

And sometimes, if he must admit some dark part of himself... The looming thoughts of reality and falseness damaged the loving bond between father and son. He was not certain of reality, even as much as he forced himself to believe the truth of the world, and the realness of his son.

So he didn't say a word to Rickard, the dark-haired boy with his father's eyes. He merely smiled at the boy and hoped beyond hopes this was enough. To say all the things he couldn't.

"Dad..." Rickard said. "Are you sure I can't come with you?"

This at least Cregan could answer.

"King's Landing will be a dangerous place. For me. For any I bring with me. Your brother needs you here, to help him with the struggles to come. Your mother and sister too." The lord of Skagos replied. "They will need your strong spirit."

"I am a spare. Nothing more." The young boy mumbled.

Cregan flinched from the words.

"You..." What could he hope to say to that?

"You are not. I love you. I always have. I don't care what happens to this castle when I am gone. I care not for the North, the politics or the name Magnar in a thousand years. I care about you. My sons and daughter. I want you to be happy, to live long lives of fulfilment." Cregan paused for the briefest of moments then continued. "I didn't have you to be a spare, to continue some blasted name that is barely my own."

"I had you because I loved your mother. I love you because you are a boy of will. I see in you the qualities that I do not see in Triston. My rage, my drive. My strength. Your brother is sharp of mind, skilled in tongues and charming as all. But you are stone, and iron and sword. When you are older you shall be his right arm, his strength and might. You shall be as Leviathan. I love you, Rickard. And I always will." The words poured from his mouth like a torrent. And with that last word, he gripped his son, held him tightly. When Maege entered the room he turned his tearful eye and waved her forth, and held his two youngest children for what some part of him feared might be the last time.

"Uncle... am I making the right choice?" Jorramun asked. Cregan turned to his sister's son. Jorramun was a tall boy of fair hair, so much like his father. He lacked even that harsh gaze and fierce features of his mother.

"I couldn't say. You were my heir once, and came very close to ruling Kingshouse. But there are my own sons and daughters now. And even you have brothers to inherit what was once yours. I know you to be an intelligent young man." Cregan said with merely a shrug.

"But is it right for me?" Asked Jorramun.

"You will find out. I shall help you find a passage from King's landing to Oldtown once we are in the city. You may stay with me for a few weeks if you want or if there are no suitable ships for the voyage." Said Cregan, shifting his weight slightly as the Stoneshiver moved in the waves.

"I shall take a ship carrying pigshit to Dorne if it will get me close to Oldtown," Jorramun said with a smile.

"Let us hope it shall not come to that Jorramun." Cregan laughed.

The two of them leaned against the edge of the ship, looking into the sea.

"I shall expect letters, as shall your mother." Said Cregan with a smile, turning to his nephew.

"I doubt I shall get up to anything exciting in Oldtown before I am sworn and chained," Jorramun replied.

"I have doubted the excitement of past voyages I have made. Harrenhall and Ibben both were unexpected... Excitements." Said Cregan.

"It is a shame I shall not see Cregan off. I hardly expected him to follow me into Oaths of celibacy and duty." Said Jorramun. "But sometimes people surprise you."

Cregan's own gaze turned dark and grim on those words.

"Sometimes they really do." Said Cregan.

Last edited: Jun 13, 2019

"I mostly assumed it was you shitposting but on a level of irony where you had become genuine as well" -Fancy Face

"If you've read any Carcosa fic, you know not to keep your hopes too high." - The Last Bullet

"I know right! Best not to hope for anything, then be surprised by everything." - Alucardan1

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Lost Carcosa

Dec 25, 2018

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Threadmarks The stone drops in Westeros

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Lost Carcosa

Lost Carcosa

Take off your mask

Dec 29, 2018

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#1,438

He smelled the city long before he saw it. The stinking refuse of half a million people thick in the air, against the water below. It was not as if Kingsdown smelled much better, the smell of rotting Whale carcass thick in the icy air of that island. But this was the stink of people, not of decay.

This was not his first rodeo, however, and two previous trips to the city had long taught him to close his nostrils to the world. And if possible to close his ears too, for the deafening cawing of Seagulls seemed to pierce his skull.

Rats with wings. He had once considered paying a fair bounty for seagull killed on his island, but as it was a hive of open air butchery and fishing he'd very quickly run out of money if he did so.

Hephaestion shivered beneath the deck, the old war horse blinking its one red eye free of something. He placed his hand against its scruffy mane and patted the beast, trying to calm himself down if nothing else. He feared that the moment he'd disembarked he'd be thrown into a cell somewhere in the Red Keep. There was just no way that Rhaegar's offer of work in the capital was genuine. Surely there were few people the King would dislike more than him? Perhaps only Robert and Brandon themselves.

With one last pat of Hephaestion's greying and brittle fur, Cregan steeled himself and made his way topside.

The first sight he saw was his Nephew standing against the edge, gawking at the capital even as he held his arm over his nose. The others, Ibbenese and Skagosi sailors were long used to such aromas and were busy working the sails, or the tack, or the ropes, guiding his ship through the rocks and shallows towards the port.

Rather than continue to stare at the city Cregan climbed to the rear castle and looked over the back of the ship.

Eight ships had followed him. Converted trading ships bought from Braavos, carrying the rest of his large retinue. If the King did seek to imprison him the moment he stepped off the ship then it would certainly not be without a fight.

Atop their masts was his flag, fluttering in the light winds of the Blackwater Bay. White, with a green lobster proud upon it. And within its right hook a harpoon.

How his ancestors, poor as they were, were able to paint shields and the like with such a complicated sigil he never knew. Perhaps they were only painted white. He cheated, and the lobster was cut out of green cloth and sewn into the white.

"Look at that castle!" Jorramun shouted in glee, starring at the red brick enormity that was the Red Keep.

"One of the best post-Aegon's Landing castles," Cregan shouted as he climbed back down to the main deck to stand next to his nephew. "They literally don't make them like that anymore."

"Hey, it's not all red! Look there." Jorramun pointed to some part of the castle. Cregan squinted his one eye, his vision not so great with his unicorn below decks. Sure enough, against the stark blood red of the rest of the building, there was a single tower of grey stone. No... Not stone.

The ship rocked, and sailors rushed about to secure things on the deck.

"Best you head back below till we dock sers." Said one of the men, an Ibbenese fellow he stood only up to Cregan's heart.

The Lord of Skagos shook his head clear and nodded.

"Come on Jorramun. Your mother will kill me if you went overboard." The Skagosi said with false cheer.

The shouts above grew in intensity, but eventually, he knew the ship had come to dock. He heard the footsteps on the deck overhead, and those same steps jumping off the ship, likely to moor the ship properly.

And so, he leads Hephaestion and his nephew up the steps onto the deck.

Sure enough, the Stoneshiver was moored at the fishmarket docks. The lord of Skagos stared at the walls of the city, the bulwark that had never been defeated by any army.

He spared a glance around, men and women looking up and him, his nephew and their unicorns. And his vision fell upon one thing.

A statue.

It was clearly of Rhaegar. A grey simulacrum of him in heavy plate, wielding an arming sword held high to pierce the heavens, a great cape flowing behind him, his armour looking like the scales of a dragon. It was not actually that great a statue, the face barely recognisable as the king.

But what it was made of that made him pause. Grey stone. Hard liquid stone.

Concrete. A statue made of concrete outside of the north. It was staring him in the face, the stony eyes of the King boring into him.

"Son of a..." Cregan mumbled beneath his breath.

"Uncle?" Asked Jorramun, pulling his attention away from the statue, and just what it meant.

"Huh? Right. Let's go to the keep." Said the Lord of Skagos. He climbed atop Hephaestion and rode the beast down the gangplank, his sword slapping against his leg. His men and Nephew followed behind, some like Jorramun on mounts of their own, but mostly on foot.

He waited for the other ships to dock, checking his clothes; the white wool, the black furs that were poorly selected for the southern heat.

Eventually, his two hundred men gathered. Perhaps excessive for the capital, but he was going to take no chances with his safety. If needs must he'd fight his way out, sword in hand.

With a wave, he turned himself around and rode towards the mud gate. Some Goldcloaks opened it for him with a nod. He returned the gesture, then rode inside.

The streets of the city were narrow things, though straight. King's Landing was one of the youngest cities on the continent, if not the youngest, and had been designed rather than grew over the years, and the layout of the city made this clear. Piss and shit ran down the streets, people threw out the contents of their chamber pots out of windows, nearly hitting him and his men. Young men and women stood on street corners, offering their goods and goods for sale.

He paid this no mind, or at least tried to, and glared at the high castle. The red stone that loomed over the city like the rising sun. The men behind him moved crowds aside, striding down the street like they owned the place. No doubt a few weeks in the city would quickly rob them of such thoughts.

Perhaps even just the high climb towards the keep. The long climb up the steps.

"Gods, these steps seem a better defence against attackers than the walls of the city." Joked Jorramun.

"And you're just riding up them. Spare a thought for my poor men." Said Cregan with a smile, stretching the scars on his face. Hephaestion shook his head like a wolf with a rabbit in its maw.

Indeed, the two Magnar's glanced behind them, looking at the poor men clambering up the long slopes towards the castle. They kept any pain they may have to themselves, but Cregan noticed the older ones dragging behind slightly. He narrowed his eye. Once they had settled in they'd need exercise and training. They and him both would need to get into shape. He had mistaken fasting with staying in shape.

Finally, they found themselves before the outer gates of the keep.

Two tired Goldcloaks looked up at the two hundred men before them. The older one squinted at Cregan before smiling.

"Aye! I remember you! You're that dragon egg guy!" Shouted the older guard.

Cregan smiled.

"Hey! Barth right?" Asked Cregan. "Still guarding the Red keep even after all these years?"

The older guard grinned and shrugged.

"It's a living. What is it this time? Got an Ice dragon this time? Perhaps a live snark?" Barth asked with a wry grin.

"Nah, I'm off to the chopping block again. Like the first time I came here." The Skagosi joked.

"Of course. Seems you've brought a few more people to follow you than last time." Said, Barth, as he leaned right to look a the horde of Northmen and Skagosi.

"Can some of them wait outside? And, you know, if you hear screaming can you let them in?" Asked Cregan. The younger guard looked perplexed as the older one laughed.

"Sure sure. Hey, no skin off my dick. There's room for about thirty of them in the great hall without causing offence." Barth explained.

"Delightful. I'll talk later, no sense in making the King wait." Cregan said with a wave, before turning around in the saddle to look at his men.

"First rank. Follow me. Rest of you catch your breath." Shouted the Lord of Skagos. Fifty men stepped forwards while the rest let out a sigh and began to mill around, lying down on the stones and generally making a nuisance of themselves.

"Should I follow?" Asked Jorramun quietly.

"Yes. Be careful though." The lord of Kingshouse whispered back. Jorramun nodded and checked his sword.

They rode past the gates, fifty men following behind. And entered the first courtyard of the Red Keep.

"And it is his grace's decision that the Volantenes should begin preparations for an expedition up the Rhoyne. The full situation of the river should be scouted out before he commits any resources to the Greyscale outbreaks." Pycelle explained.

"Yours is the blood of the dragon. Can you not see the danger..."

"His grace has already explained." Lord Tywin growled. "It is the fault of the Volantenes that the disease has been allowed to continue this long. He had suggested harsher quarantines to the Pentoshi and Qohoriks years ago."

"Dothraki do not care for Quarantines Your Grace, lord hand." the white-haired man tried to explain, bowing again. "When they collected tribute from the cities they brought the plague with them."

An Essosi blaming the horse lords? How they fall into predictable patterns. Next, they shall blame it all on the Braavosi. Or perhaps the lack of slaves they have. Time is flat circle after all.

"The Dothraki have been scattered for over a decade. They are hardly the great threat they once were." Lord Tywin said, his green eyes piercing into the Volantenes soul.

"And yet the Qohorik's and Norvosi are also weak with the stone plague. You cannot blame them for paying for peace." Said the representative. The Volantene finally looked directly towards him.

"Your grace. Please. We trade with Westeros. We are partners. This is not a Braavosi army or the golden company. This plague threatens us all." He pleaded.

"I hear that fire works to purify the infected lands and people. Surely the great city of Volantis has men capable of creating wildfire?" Rhaegar finally asked.

His master of works, Wisdom Hasdan nodded.

Lord Tyrell seemed to shift in his chair. The talk of the substance had always put the fat flower ill at ease. Some part of him couldn't entirely blame him. The substance had been the ruin of many a Targaryen. Aerion, Aegon...

His father. Few knew of the experiments his father had done before his death. Few would ever know the true extent of his father's madness. If they did, they would understand that his murder was a service to the seven kingdoms. That his Kinslaying was for their good. They would bless his name. He could be open about it. But they would never know, either of Aerys crimes nor his own.

The doors opened as a messenger walked in. He walked down the full length of the hall and bowed in front of the dais. Rhaegar waved his hand and he spoke.

"Your Grace, Lord Magnar's party has arrived." The servant said.

The Skagosi savage at last. Excellent.

Rhaegar glanced towards Tywin, who turned to the Volantene.

"His grace has been clear. There will be no aid, either monetarily or militarily until Volantis takes its own measures to secure the south. Come back with a Tyroshi and Lyseni next time." The old lion warned.

Defeated, the Volantene bowed and made his way back into the crowds. Rhaegar ran a finger down one of the blades on his throne, letting his blood seep into the rust and metal as so many kings before him had done so. He felt nothing even as the blood dripped from his fingers.

"Send him and his party in." Rhaegar eventually said after a pause. The servant nodded and walked the long path back to the doors of the great hall.

He opened them wide, with the help of a few Goldcloaks, and the Lord of Skagos walked around the corner through the doors.

He was followed by a great many men, standing four by four behind him. He was also followed by a young man that shared some of his features. Perhaps his son or brother.

The years had worn on the Skagosi's face, the scar tissue that made up the right of his face healing and thickening. His hair was cut short, though not very neat. His single eye was glaring at him, fear and resolution clear in that single grey orb. He marched down the hall, like a soldier.

He stood before the dais, his hand upon the grip of Leviathan.

"Your Grace. You have summoned me to the capital. And here I stand." The Skagosi said, his northern voice echoing through the hall.

The Lord of the seven Kingdoms leaned forwards on the Iron Throne.

"And here you stand," Rhaegar mumbled beneath his breath, confused by the words. Rhaegar stood, looming over the rest of the hall by standing on the steps leading up to the twisted throne of swords.

"Lord Cregan Magnar. Lord of Skagos and Kingshouse. Warden of the Shivering sea. I have offered you a place by my side, to aid in the glorious administration of the seven kingdoms. What say you?" The silver haired king of all men and women living on the continent asked magnanimously.

And carefully, with violet eyes Rhaegar watched the flurry of emotions play upon the Skagosi's face. But they both were aware of the truth. The savage would not deny him.

"It would be my honour, your grace." Said Cregan, as he knelt down on one knee.

Hardly the first lie you have told me in this hall Skagosi.

"Then stand beside me, and aim me in running the Kingdoms of Westeros," Rhaegar said. The Skagosi rubbed his missing eye, stood and made his way up the small steps to the raised stone. To join Lord Tywin, Lord Tyrell, Lady Arriane and Lord Grafton beside him.

The northerner glared once more at him, perhaps trying to divine why he was here.

Let him work it out. It shouldn't take him long.

Rhaegar scratched the stone beneath his clothes. The slow disease that was climbing up his skin, the granite ribs, and waved for court to continue.

Last edited: Jun 13, 2019

"I mostly assumed it was you shitposting but on a level of irony where you had become genuine as well" -Fancy Face

"If you've read any Carcosa fic, you know not to keep your hopes too high." - The Last Bullet

"I know right! Best not to hope for anything, then be surprised by everything." - Alucardan1

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Dec 29, 2018

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Threadmarks The first of his Small council meetings

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Lost Carcosa

Lost Carcosa

Take off your mask

Jan 8, 2019

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#1,454

"Shall we begin?" Asked Rhaegar, as he sat on the most opulent chair in the small council chambers.

It seems that Cregan was going to be thrown into the deep end. Not even an hour since he arrived at the Red Keep and he was already in his first Small Council meeting. Hopefully, no one here was expecting him to participate yet.

And what a council it was. Tywin sat proudly on the opposite end of the table to Rhaegar, watching each of them with his hawk-like green eyes. Mace Tyrell seemed content to lean back slightly, though the Skagosi could easily see the way his eyes followed whatever conversation was happening. For a man Cregan had known as 'The Fat Flower' he certainly wasn't that fat. Cregan found himself next to Arianne, with Mace and Grafton opposite him.

Arianne Martell was the slightest of them, yet she was perhaps the only one of the council prepared with notes, papers and parchments of reports. Not even Lord Grafton, apparent Master of Coin, had anything on hand though he did seem to have a servant wearing his colours standing behind him carrying something close to his chest.

Moreover, of course, Maester Pycelle could barely keep his eyes open. The Skagosi wasn't going to begrudge him for that. It was unlikely he was going to be needed for his advice. After all, the man's puppet master was here himself.

Cregan was not going to get an introduction, something he silently and sarcastically thanked the gods for.

"Your grace. Lord Connington reports that his search in the Markets of Volantis has been fruitless. What little scraps of Valyrian steel are likely to be found behind the black walls of the city, and those of the 'Old-Blood' are not letting him through." Arianne explained. "I have suggested he should hint that you would be amenable to support the next Triarch militarily should Connington be allowed to gather some metal, but..."

"They have heard my words on the matter of Essos before no doubt," Rhaegar said, cutting off his... Some kind of relative. Cregan was not going to even try and track that family tree.

"Your grace." Cregan decided to speak up, gathering eyes of all the council to settle upon him. "Qarth and further away from the Valyrian peninsula might prove more fruitful. In times of war and with many Qohorik smiths fleeing to the black-walled city I've no doubt the Volantenes are hoarding whatever dragonsteel they can."

"Why Qarth then?" Asked Tywin, with a raised eyebrow. Of course. Brightroar.

"Qarth is protected from all sides by the Red wastes, its allies in the Ghiscari peninsula and the Jade straits. I'm pretty sure even the most warlike of those merchants would be far more likely to accept an offer of goods or money or trade than Volantenes who might find themselves at war at any moment. Plus, having Valyrian steel is more of a status symbol for people pretending to be the heirs of Valyria than people who barely care about them." Cregan explained his reasoning.

Rhaegar considered.

"It would take several months to travel even from Volantis to Qarth, never mind the return trip." Said Mace Tyrell, somehow an expert on the matter of cross-continent travel times. The Skagosi briefly narrowed his eyes, then sighed.

"I have contacts amongst the Tourmaline brotherhood in Qarth. I can at least put out feelers if you insist on wasting money on Valyrian steel with winter approaching." Cregan challenged, taping his fingers against the table and starring Rhaegar in the face.

"Northerners and their fear of winter your grace," Pycelle said simperingly.

"Your Grace, with all respects there surely are far greater concerns of the realm than reforging Blackfyre or Darksister," Cregan stressed. Rhaegar's face was stone, Cregan could not read it.

"The future of house Targaryen may well ride on my children being able to defend themselves Lord Magnar. It may be difficult for a Skagosi to understand, what with that Meteroic sword by your waist, but we must be ready to defend ourselves." Rhaegar admonished. Cregan shook his head, not willing to let this go.

"Then get a better King's Guard. I cannot believe that two master of coins and your small council would agree to this folly." Cregan insisted.

Tywin sat up somehow even straighter in his chair.

"This is not the Winter Court Lord Magnar. We serve at my Goodson's grace." Tywin said. It was not a growl, even a command. However, the ice behind the words was clear.

"I must protest. Winter is at most two years away, gods be good. Has the Crown prepared for if it approaches the length of this long summer? With Essos in turmoil, we cannot hope to simply buy grain from them in the coming years, less every lord from Saltshore to Skagos bankrupt themselves." Cregan insisted, pointedly not looking towards Tywin and instead towards Rhaegar himself.

"Has your Northern court?" Asked Rhaegar simply, raising an eyebrow before turning to Arianne.

She shuffled through the papers she had brought, coughed, and read one aloud.

"Lord Stark has ordered that a third of the next two harvests be stored for winter. He has also decided to invest more in the Bear Island, Sea dragon and Barrowlands Whaling and fishing trade." Arianne reported. "This as of the last Winter court."

How long has Rhaegar had spies within Brandon's court? And who?

"Well. Perhaps we ought to follow Lord Stark's example?" Rhaegar asked. "However, you are in the south now Lord Magnar. We shall not see a true winter for quite some time. I need Valyrian steel sooner rather than later."

Cregan shook his head but decided to concede the point. He could hardly blurt out 'The fucking Others are coming, and we might see a second long night you fucking purpled eyed twat' as tempting as it was.

"By your word," Cregan said simply, leaning back slightly in his chair.

Rhaegar turned away from the Skagosi and returned his gaze to the heir to Dorne.

"Send a letter to Connington. Tell him to get in contact with Merchants from Qarth, but that he is to stay in Volantis until I order him otherwise." Rhaegar insisted.

Cregan held back a sigh as Rhaegar spoke again.

"I wish to put on a tourney for Aegon's sixteenth nameday coming up. He is of majority now, the whole realm should celebrate." He said. Careful not to draw attention to his action, Cregan watched Tywin's face. If the reminder of the two boys in the way of his grandson becoming King annoyed the Hand his face didn't show it.

"I shall gather the coin," Grafton said with a nod.

Cregan glanced to his fingernails, then to the King. He wasn't going to be dumb enough to suggest anything along the lines of not having the tourney; he wasn't stupid. Besides, Petyr had been dead for a long time. There was little chance the Kingdom was in as dire a financial state as it had been last time.

Still.

"If he is of a majority, why not give Aegon Dragonstone?" Asked Cregan.

The whole table flinched at the words. Ah. A topic they had all been hoping not to be brought up. Of course. Tywin is right there after all.

"He shall in time. But he might learn far more of rule from the small council chambers and from the court than a rock in the middle of the Blackwater." Rhaegar explained with a wave of his hand.

"I doubt that we need more people without any experience to sit at this table," Tywin said. Cregan raised an eyebrow and smiled. To his surprise, Tywin's Ire was directed at Arianne and Grafton rather than just him.

Which, if anything, was an early indicator of who might actually be his allies in this cesspool of a city.

"Of course. We've just gone through a major reshuffle of the Small Council," Mace began, wiping his chin. "Perhaps we should wait for when we are all ready to aid your son in his education in ruling."

"This is irrelevant to the matter of a nameday tourney." Pycelle reminded them.

"Of course. I shall set the coin aside for such a matter. Grand Maester, might you send word to the realm of the coming Tourney once we have worked out the prizes?" Asked Lord Grafton.

"Of course my lord." Pycelle nodded.

"Five thousand for archery, ten thousand for the melee. Ten thousand for the runner up and twenty-five for the winner of the Joust." Rhaegar stated bluntly.

As always, the first council meeting is still about a fucking tourney.

"Of course," Grafton said with a nod. Cregan squinted. If that was an acceptable amount, the coffers must be pretty full right now — a good sign. Perhaps that was the point, however, to prove the Crown was in an excellent state.

"While we are here. Lord Jon is reportedly ill, and the Vale is tense. Perhaps his grace should make an appearance and..." Grafton began.

"We shall see the splendour of the Vale at my son's tourney; we can discuss the Vale with them then." Rhaegar interrupted.

Cregan stepped in.

"And half the Seven Kingdoms with them. Your grace, your time shall be divided between half a hundred matters, not the least of which is your own son. Better to aid the Vale in their difficult time now rather than simply wait for them to come to you. I presume that is the matter of which Lord Grafton is truly concerned with?" Cregan asked, raising his one good eyebrow at Lord Grafton. The Vale lord turned to the Skagosi and nodded. Hopefully, he had not heard about what Triston may or may not have gotten up to with his niece while he was in the Vale.

"Lord Magnar would be correct. I am a loyal subject of your grace, but the Vale is divided between the two heirs of Jon. Your word would settle the matter without bloodshed." Grafton said, stressing the importance of this fact. Cregan wasn't entirely aware of who was who's side in the Vale, most of the lords of the Mountains were keeping their loyalties close to their chest.

"I shall not while Lord Arryn lives demand that he insults one of his own blood with disinheritance. As I said, the Vale will be coming to me. And I doubt it shall come to much bloodshed. I shall be here to mediate should it even come to that." Said Rhaegar, before he scratched at his chest.

"Of course your Grace," Grafton replied with a bow of his head.

Cregan sighed, then nodded. This was not his argument to have. At most, it would be his friend Sunderland dragging him in, and Sunderland barely cared who sat in the Eyrie.

He would not be caught blind, however. He would gather proper intelligence on who was supporting whom for the weirwood throne of the Vale. Better to get a clear map now rather than wait for the Vale to be go to war and see who sparked it.

"The matter of the Rosby inheritance must be dealt with. Lord Gyles is close to death, and he has no heirs of his body." Tywin said simply.

"Who are the best candidates?" Asked Rhaegar. Tywin cleared his throat.

"He has a ward, a young boy by the name of Tyrek Farman. The two are close and Tyrek is of a distant line of the main Farman family. No doubt he'd be willing to give up his family name if it meant he might rule in his own right when he comes to majority." Tywin explained.

Cregan narrowed his eye.

"Oh, I just so happen to have a Westerland boy in his court. What are the chances? He's not a Lannister, this isn't some subterfuge of mine."

Surprisingly, it was Mace Tyrell who spoke up next.

"There is a distant claim from a Brune. Perhaps we should follow the blood rather than a boy that happened to be inside the castle at the time?" Asked Mace, directly challenging Tywin Lannister rather than looking to Rhaegar.

Cregan turned his attention to the Flower lord.

So you two aren't allies here? And why a Brune?

"My lords. The actual heir, at least by the family trees I have read insists that Lady Stokeworth is currently Lord Gyle's heir." Arianne said, looking pointedly at Lord Tyrell.

Who is allied to who on this small council? Is anyone but Tywin and Pycelle?

Cregan shook his head, leaning back in his chair. He certainly had no dog in this fight.

"Lord Gyles has a right to sort this out for himself. I'm sure we shall have some word on the matter soon enough." Rhaegar dismissed.

Cregan was gobsmacked. Rhaegar was supposed to be some dutiful prince at least. Had that not been the word from the capitol from the last fifteen years? Had that not been what everyone spoke of before Aerys' death? Yet here he was, consistently shrugging off important matters and leaving them for later. It was insanity.

The Skagosi almost spoke up. But he had done enough drawing attention to himself this session, and he had not even been in the capitol for an entire day. He did, however, elect to decide to talk to one of his fellow council members before the sunset. Not Tywin or Mace. They were likely too important to speak to a Skagosi savage. But certainly Grafton or Arianne.

"We shall discuss further matters tomorrow. I shall allow our new member to get acquainted with the Red Keep." Said Rhaegar. "And to find room for all his retinue in the city."

No way. Where he went so would the Magnar guard. He was not going to be caught with his pants down.

"I shall find a manse in the city, your grace. I intend to get started on my work on the royal fleet and trade quickly, and I will need many clerks to aid me in that task. Best I get somewhere large enough to do that." Cregan replied.

"Perhaps you are right." Said Rhaegar, though his squinting eyes showed he knew that Cregan did not trust the security within the Red Keep. "But I shall show you a room you may use if you do not wish to make the journey."

"Thank you, your grace," Cregan replied with a bow of his head.

He had, in fact, sent someone to grab a manse once he had been called into the small council chambers. He could always ask Grafton to refund the money he spent on getting somewhere.

But first things first. He'd have to talk to him.

Grafton did, in fact, have a solar within the Red Keep. It was a small thing cluttered with paperwork, but it did exist. Cregan knocked upon the oaken door.

"Who is it? An assassin? Please, act before I finish this work." Asked Lord Grafton sarcastically. Cregan smiled.

"I'm afraid not. I have a sword here, but I don't think that makes me an assassin." Cregan replied, smacking the hilt of Leviathan.

The door opened, and a beleaguered Vale lord welcomed him inside. He seemed to sink into his chair behind the desk, but Cregan still waited to be offered the chair on the other side.

Eventually, Grafton did so.

"What can I do for our new Master of Ships?" Asked Lord Grafton.

"I was sort of thinking what might we do for each other." Cregan blurted, not bothering with subtlety. He was Skagosi, he could get away with it.

"Well, unless you are an assassin or a Maester with a gold link I doubt there is much you can do for me," Grafton replied honestly.

"I beg to differ. We both want the same things; we just don't have the power to enact them." Cregan said, glancing to the door. Grafton, however, glanced to one of the paintings on the wall opposite the hallway.

"I doubt Lady Arianne shall mind; I intend to talk to her next," Cregan admitted.

Grafton sighed.

"You know, I think I once stayed in this solar," Cregan said, somewhat bemused.

"Really?" Asked Lord Grafton.

Cregan looked around more carefully. No, the pattern of stone on the walls was different. Also, he had an actual window.

"No. It was close to this. Somewhere I spent hours working on my defence." Cregan said. Grafton laughed.

"Ah yes. The attempted Regicide case. That was fun. I was one of the judges on that case." Said Lord Grafton. Cregan smiled.

"I remember. Gods. How much things have changed." Cregan japed.

"Hmm... You really shouldn't have gotten off that easily you know." Said Grafton.

"Oh yeah obviously. I thought it was common knowledge I blackmailed the King." Cregan replied with a shrug.

"Yeah. I wondered when Rhaegar ignored our guilty verdict." Said Grafton. He at least had the good grace to look a little embarrassed. "Sorry."

"No harm no foul. I am still alive after all." Said Cregan. "Ish."

"Hmm. So, what brings the Skagosi savage to my... humble abode." Asked the Lord of Gulltown.

"I need allies on the small council. It's clear that Tywin and Mace are at each other's throats, but both are too powerful to truly challenge each other. So they'll force us to pick sides, and neither of them seems to have the actual best interests of the realm in mind." Cregan explained.

"The walls have ears." Grafton reminded him.

"Good." Said Cregan. "I want them to hear this. We cannot wait to be forced to choose whenever Tywin tries and kills Aegon and Daemon, or when Mace does... Whatever he's planning."

"And what about you? What is your interest in taking the job?" Asked Grafton.

"I was forced to. By both my liege and Rhaegar. No two ways about it. I don't care about who sits on that throne or who their granddaddy is. I care about Skagos first, the north second, and the realm third." Cregan replied.

"A man after my own heart. Though I am sure that is how both Lord Tyrell and Lord Lannister think as well." Grafton pointed out.

"Yes, but they are willing to destroy the Realm if it serves their interests. I quite like having the Seven Kingdoms exist peacefully. I've had enough of war." Cregan replied.

"And yet it seems that his grace does not mind. The Vale is on a knife's edge. I might be the last lord in the Vale who wants peace between the two falcons." Grafton said dejectedly. "I mean, neither has tried to court the man in charge of the largest fleet in the vale. No, they care about brave knights, not logistics and wealth."

"Are you upset at that?" Asked Cregan.

"I mean... I'm a high lord dammit, yet the Arryn's have looked down on us for centuries simply because we partake in trade." Grafton said bitterly.

"I'm not sure that's accurate..." Cregan mumbled, not loud enough for the lord of Gulltown to hear.

"So. We both want the same thing. Peace in the Vale. Peace in the Seven Kingdoms. A nice peaceful transition of power when Jon Arryn dies. Rhaegar to live long enough to teach Aegon how to rule and for the realm to survive the next winter. And if you and I make some money on the side... Well, that's a bonus." Cregan explained.

"That sounds reasonable." Grafton nodded.

"So. We need to support each other on the small council. We need to work with each other outside of it. We need to know how each of us feels about an issue before it is brought up and to compromise between us." Cregan explained.

"Of course. We must pool resources. It is only natural. The master of ship gathers a lot of wealth for the crown via trade tariffs and trading vessels." Said Grafton. "We are natural allies on the small council."

"Absolutely. I shall need money to build ships for his grace, you shall need ships to get money for his grace." Said Cregan. Perhaps he was putting on the loyalty to Rhaegar a bit strong there, but the walls were listening.

The two men grinned at each other.

"I'm afraid I have nothing on hand to toast to our partnership." Said Grafton, searching through the drawers in his desk. The Skagosi shook his head.

"I don't drink my lord," Cregan explained.

"Fair enough." Said Lord Grafton, closing the drawer shut. "Let us hope this shall be a profitable partnership."

"Let's hope indeed." Cregan replied with a guarded smile.

The sun was beginning to set by the time he left the solar of Lord Grafton, and he elected to simply meet up with his guard and hope they had managed to buy a Manse. Failing that... He'd burn that bridge when he came to it.

Four of the Magnar guard escorted him through the castle. Two of the younger ones were shocked at the majesty of the construction of the keep. For all Cregan had built upon his isles, they had been simple utilitarian buildings devoid of any artistic merit. Made of ugly liquid stone.

This place was of blood-red stone. Of course, they were impressed. The older two of his escort were Company of the Rose men and had been from the Sealord's palace of Braavos to the Black walls of Volantis and back. A castle was hardly new to them.

Eventually, they made their way out, Cregan remounting his unicorn Hephaestion, and rode down the hill. One of his guards rode up to greet the five of them.

"My lord. We have a manse prepared on Shadowblack lane." The guard said.

"Overly dramatic name for a street," Cregan mumbled. Turns out, much to his annoyance, going to this street required travelling back through the Red Keep and leaving through the North gate, then winding down a long street. The manse his retinue had quickly taken over (If not, perhaps, paid for yet) was smack bang in the middle, halfway up the hill towards the Red Keep.

"Well, at least my commute should keep me in shape." The Lord of Skagos whispered to himself.

It was... Not in the best of conditions. And certainly could not hold all his guard. Cregan gritted his teeth. Hopefully, Lord Grafton would spot him for additional barracks for his men. But it was likely he'd have to send some back to Skagos.

Still, that was a problem for later. The sun was setting, and even with armed guard, he did not want to be caught on the Streets of the Capitol at night.

He entered the house as one of his guards lead Hephaestion around the back to a small garden. It was dark, with few lanterns or torches ready for occupancy.

"Are we just squatting here?" Asked Cregan incredulously as he spotted his nephew directing the Magnar guard.

"For now. We'll pay off the proper people in time." Said Jorramun.

"How many can the house keep?" Asked Cregan.

"Maybe fifty if we squeeze everyone in. And use almost every room." Jorramun admitted. Cregan sighed.

"Right. Everyone else can stay at an inn tonight, I'll talk to the King. See if we can't get some room in the Red Keep's barracks." Cregan grumbled. "But I'm going to bed."

"Aren't you going to eat?" Asked Jorramun.

"My stomach is a little twisted from the voyage. I shall eat tomorrow." Cregan replied with a wave of his hand.

"Up the stairs, the room at the end of the hallway." Said Jorramun.

"What about your own?" Asked Cregan.

"No way. I'm staying at a tavern." Jorramun replied with a smirk.

"Yeah yeah. Lucky you." Cregan replied.

He made his way up the stairs, careful to keep his grip on the railing as he climbed up the creaky wooden steps.

"Going to cost me a gods damn fortune." He grumbled to himself, clicking his back as he made his way down the dark hall lit only by the setting sun.

He entered the room at the end of the hallway and prepared to throw his sword onto the bed and undress when he noticed the figure lying on his bed.

"Lady Martell. What are you doing here?" Asked Cregan with a sigh, running his hand down his face.

"Lord Jorramun asked one of my people where he could find suitable accommodation in the city and I pointed them here. I figured I ought to wait for you." The heir to Dorne said as she lounged on what was supposed to be his new bed.

"Well that's very kind Lady Martell, but it has been a long day." Cregan pointed out. "I lack the vigour of my youth."

"Is that an offer?" Arianne asked with a smirk.

"No." The Skagosi said bluntly.

"Good. You're not my type." Arianne said bluntly in return, sitting up and getting off the bed to stand.

"Can't blame you there." Cregan shrugged, pointing to his one eye.

"Not that Lord Magnar. Never liked Grey eyes and gaunt cheeks." She replied. "Or northerners." Cregan couldn't help but grin at that.

"Fair enough. So, if not for that, I suppose you are here because you've heard back from your spies listening in on Lord Grafton?" Cregan asked pointedly.

"I have. Euron Greyjoy was kind enough to leave many of his spies in the Capitol before he departed to Essos." Arianne replied.

Cregan's grin grew noticeably strained.

"So. Let's discuss business." Arianne said simply, clapping slightly in the darkness.

"Fine. I offer you the same deal I did to Grafton. An alliance against Tywin and Mace. So long as our goals align or we can at least reach a compromise." Cregan stated bluntly.

"And what really are your goals lord Magnar? Surely you can't just be here because you've been forced to?" Asked the heir to Dorne.

"I don't know. That seems like a good enough motive to me." Cregan japed.

"Do you wish to know mine?" Asked Arianne, absentmindedly playing with a strand of her silken ebony hair.

"Because you want to do something other than be in the Water Gardens with your father or... Whatever it is the Dornish do when they aren't abusing guest right?" Asked Cregan sarcastically.

"As opposed to Skagosi eating people or going to war with an army ten times their size, losing then whining about it for a hundred years?" Asked Arianne.

"Touché." Cregan shrugged.

"What?" Asked Arianne, puzzled by the non-existent word.

"Ibben for 'Good point'. Something I picked up when I was there." Cregan lied.

"Doesn't sound Ibbenese," Arianne asked with a raised eyebrow. "What was Ibben like anyway?"

"It was murder." Cregan japed only somewhat sarcastically. "You know, politics, warfare, dying and coming back, crowning some guy."

"Your mastery of language and wit is outstanding Lord Magnar. Truly enthralling tale." Said Arianne. For some reason, she didn't comment on the whole dying thing.

"Well, I do try. It's honestly shocking I can read and write actually." Cregan said.

"I don't know. I've read your code of laws. Wasn't that intelligible. You kept putting "It's" instead of "Its" and constantly went off on long diatribes about esoteric shit that went nowhere." Arianne argued. "Perhaps you can't."

"Hah hah," Cregan said blankly.

"And then you rapidly changed the mood of the whole thing when you suddenly went really dark in your description of Cannibalism. Oh, and I'm pretty sure you should have removed the first paragraph since you completely ignore it later on." Arianne pointed out.

"Well, you know. You're dumb enough to read it." Cregan pointed out weakly.

"And you're dumb enough to write it. I'm only read the stuff you write because I've put too much time in to stop now." She said. "There are plenty of other works I can read of much better quality."

"Shall we get to the point? I have no motive here in King's Landing except to keep the heart of Westeros beating. I don't know why your here Lady Martell, but if it doesn't break the King's Peace I'm sure we can accommodate each other." Cregan stated.

"Can we Lord Magnar? I am here to save my people." Lady Martell explained.

"As am I..." Cregan replied carefully, looking at Lady Martell strangely, trying to divine exactly what she meant by that and what she knew exactly.

She returned the distrustful look.

"Winter?" she asked first.

"To an extent. And you?" Asked Cregan.

The heir to Dorne shook her head.

"A burden of the Martell's." She replied.

Cryptic.

"So... We aid each other on Rhaegar's small council. Keep the realm from collapsing into chaos. Stop Tywin and Mace from... Whatever it is exactly they are trying to do." Said Cregan carefully. No doubt they had spies of their own, but he really doubted they'd be able to hear him here.

"Sounds agreeable Lord Magnar." Arianne replied.

Cregan held out his hand, and the heir to Dorne shook it in return.

"Let us hope this shall be a fruitful partnership." She said.

"Let's." He replied, not trusting her an inch.

Last edited: Jan 8, 2019

"I mostly assumed it was you shitposting but on a level of irony where you had become genuine as well" -Fancy Face

"If you've read any Carcosa fic, you know not to keep your hopes too high." - The Last Bullet

"I know right! Best not to hope for anything, then be surprised by everything." - Alucardan1

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Lost Carcosa

Jan 8, 2019

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Lost Carcosa

Lost Carcosa

Take off your mask

Feb 1, 2019

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#1,494

His second day as acting lord of Kingshouse had gone better than the first. The first had mostly consisted of the farewell feast for his father, his cousin and the men leaving with them. Dad had even told him that he had commissioned one of the Qohorik smiths in Kingsdown itself to forge him a meteoric iron blade. That it had been paid for, all Triston had to do was get it measured and fitted for himself, and commission what sort of blade he wished for.

Father wielded Leviathan, the ancient bastard sword of House Magnar. And one day, so would he. But quietly he wondered if that was right for him. Triston had seen enough melees on the island to know that his dad was the kind of warrior that swung with all his might, that frothed at the mouth and roared with every victory. He was every bit the Skagosi Warrior he tried to pretend he wasn't.

But he, Triston, was not. He was anything but. He had spent the last year in the Vale, mostly with his cousin Jon and the Sunderlands. They were of an entirely different breed of warrior. His father's friend and the man he was named after, Triston Sunderland, was no small warrior himself. But he was cautious. Actually using shields, both as defensive tools and weapons. His sons, including his good uncle Leo, were of a more typical sort for Andals. Longswords and kite-shields. Lances.

They were, surprisingly for Sistermen, superb horsemen. All seven of them. Jon, his cousin, perhaps less so, but he was younger than even him. He'd grow into it. Leo himself rode a unicorn. A wedding present from his Dad long ago.

Gods. He had other things to worry about than not yet existing swords.

He had moved to the Tower of the Deceiver. Mostly to get away from his parents whenever they were trying for yet another sibling, but also to have some private rooms to himself, now that he was Lord of Kingshouse.

But for now, he lay there. Staring at the ceiling from his bed. The white bear fur far too warm for this summer morn, even at the edge of the world.

There was a knock upon the door to his chambers. If he were to guess, it would be his Mother or Maester Lorean. Either might need his final word on some matter of rule. As he rose to stand out of his bed, he briefly sniffed his armpits and confirmed, beyond any reasonable doubt, that he needed a wash.

But when he opened the door, he did not find either his Mother nor the Blonde haired Maester he had once seen his father beat the crap out of. But the dark clothed, violet-eyed young man that had been his best friend for the last eight or more years.

"Cregan. You're up early." Triston said, rubbing his eyes clear of sleep.

The young man barged in, all wroth and brooding, as the bastard typically liked to be. Some of it Triston knew was affected, perhaps to take up after his father in all but name, to be as wroth and brooding as Cregan Magnar was known to try to be.

"I am to leave for the Wall," Cregan said as he stared out of the glass window, looking across the Kingshouse courtyard, towards the main keep itself.

Triston rolled his eyes and walked towards him, standing next to his friend and looking out that same window.

"I know. Father talked about it. He had some unkind words to say about your own father." Triston admitted.

"My father." Cregan nearly spat, but a look from Triston stopped him from spitting on his bedroom floor.

"Yeah. Lord Stark is an arsehole. You were right." Triston admitted with a shrug.

"I might... There is Braavos." Said Cregan.

Triston turned to the bastard boy a year or so older than him.

"Braavos? Going to Essos right now is probably a worse decision than going to the Wall. Not including the Others." Said Triston.

"The Others. Right. Yeah, you're Father told me of that. Made me promise to carry that Dragonglass knife he gave me on me at all times I was there. I wish..." The Bastard grew silent there, and Triston could not divine what it was he might hope to say.

"When do you leave? I'd have thought that Brandon Stark would have thrown you to the Wall himself by now?" Asked Triston. His light prodding did little to lift his friend's spirits.

"Two weeks hence. They are problems with letting my mother know about what is happening. That, and Lord Magnar was able to ask for a stay of execution." Said Cregan glumly.

"Well. Two whole weeks." Triston said cheerfully, turning away from the glass window and leaning back against the wall, playing with his hands for a few moments before he spoke again. "I could use your help."

Cregan turned to his friend, a little confused.

"I am a bastard. I could not..."

"What you are, Cregan, is someone who has spent as much time as I have, if not more because of this last year, with my Father. Watching him rule Skagos. Mother and Lorean will be a great help in the days to come. But I need someone my age. I need my Brother. For as long as I have him." Triston turned and stared into those violet eyes. The Bastard was unable to say a word for a moment, his eyes quietly shaking.

"I..." To Triston's surprise, the boy knelt, one hand on his knee, the other behind him.

"I am yours to wield my Lord," Cregan said.

Triston pushed aside certain thoughts and times the two of them had shared in their youths, and held out his hand, trying to hide the bemused smirk he had on his face.

"Rise Cregan Snow, and be made my right arm." Said Triston.

Cregan stood up, standing level with the boy a year younger than him.

"Perhaps I ought to give you a real title? Father made a bunch up to thank his lords... Master of Ice Waters?" Asked Triston, raising an eyebrow at his friend.

"I am no great sailor," Cregan admitted. "A wolf does not take to water as well as a Lobster does."

"No doubt. Master of the hunt?" Asked Triston.

"When was the last time either of us hunted?" Asked Cregan with a slowly growing smile. The two boys laughed, and both began to lean against the outer wall of Triston's room.

"Perhaps we don't need to label it. Our rela... Your position in court." Triston suggested with a shrug.

"Perhaps not. It is only temporary, however. I shall be sworn and chained to the Night's Watch soon enough." Cregan said glumly.

Sworn huh?

"You know... There is this one place I have never visited. It's one of the only buildings in Kingsdown that my Father opened that neither me or Mum was invited to." Said Triston, a wry smile playing on his face.

Cregan turned to him, confused, trying to divine what exactly he meant.

Triston sighed.

"The Brothel. The Northmen and Skagosi one. Not the Ibbenese one." Triston explained bluntly.

"Oh. OHHHH." Cregan said as he realised exactly what his friend was implying.

"Gods. You are an idiot sometimes." Said Triston. "But if you wish to go, you will have to wait. Dad would never forgive me if I spent my first real day as acting lord of Kingshouse and Skagos going to a brothel."

"I could not begin to imagine how annoyed he'd be," Cregan said drolly.

"First... Let's see what's on the to-do list today." Said Triston, stretching as he dragged himself off the wall and made his way towards the door to his room.

"And eat breakfast." Added Cregan. "I'm starving."

"How? Last night's feast was enough for me." Said Triston as he began to make his way down the spiral staircase of the Tower of the Deceiver.

"How aren't you hungry?" Cregan asked in return, only a few steps behind.

Triston shrugged, not that his conversational partner could see it.

"Skagosi get full quicker. A useful trait for subsisting on literally nothing but Mushrooms and Human flesh for eight thousand years." Triston suggested. That wouldn't be true, but it sounded like something some dumb shit visiting Maester eager to paint the people of the archipelago with a massive brush would say.

"That sounds like horse shit Triston." Cregan pointed out.

The acting lord of Skagos and Kingshouse coughed.

"Sorry. That sounds like horse shit my Lord." Cregan corrected. Triston could hear the grin in his voice.

"That's better." He replied with a wry smile.

It turned out, the only duty he had to do today was somehow deal with the fact Father had taken three hundred men to King's Landing. It still required him to sit at the dais in the main hall of Kingshouse and discuss it with his advisers, however.

Three hundred. That was a fucking huge number. Sure, half of them had been green boys, but the others had been Company of the Rose veterans. Probably the best fighters on the island. Men who had fought beside and beneath his dad during both the New Ibbish campaign and the Battle of Kingshouse. Men who had sailed halfway across the world to follow his father.

Triston knew his dad was paranoid about King's Landing, about Rhaegar and the royal court. But this... This was near madness.

Honestly, it was as if dad expected to go to war that quickly.

"How on Earth does dad intend to pay all their wages?" Triston asked.

His mother ran a hand down her face, sighing deeply as she did so. He could hardly blame her. She had been putting up with his bullshit for even longer than he had.

"Your father loves to rush away from the Isles at the slightest provocation. It has been a blessing and a curse." Mother said with a sigh.

"And the fleet needed to bring them there... Is he keeping the ships at King's Landing?" Triston asked, turning to Maester Lorean.

"I do not know my lord. Only that your lord father believes firmly that this will be the year the decades-long peace breaks." Said the Maester, the man that had taught him his numbers and letters.

"I shall send him a letter. Insisting that he return half of the guard and half the ships. We can have them on anti-piracy or something important." Said Triston.

"I don't think Lord Magnar is wrong," Cregan spoke up. Triston, his mother and Maester Lorean turned to the bastard. "King Rhaegar has been no friends of the Starks or Magnars. And he is right. The Seven Kingdoms are on a knife's edge. A suitable guard, if not a small army, in the capitol, will allow him to move and react both quickly and with immediate strength when the situation demands."

Triston nodded.

"I... You raise a good point, Cregan. Fine. We can dip into the treasury. It may hobble our ability to act quickly up here, however."

"Against the..." Mother began to ask, before glancing towards Maester Lorean.

"My Lady. I have served his Lordship for sixteen years. I have seen him in his cups enough times for him to blurt out his fears. They may be... Irrational, but I do understand that your Lord Husband, my Lord, believes in the Others." Lorean explained, looking at both him and his mother.

A profound silence fell over the hall.

"And you? Lorean?" Asked Triston carefully.

"I? I have seen magic in this world. I need only look to your father and Hephaestion. Or the skinchangers amongst the Skagosi I have interviewed. Magic. Is. That is undeniable, though some of my colleagues would prefer otherwise. But the Others? Ancient enemies of legend travelling south from the uninhabitable unknowns of the world, marching beneath the moon to kill the living, only to bring them back as their thralls? I cannot say I have seen either a hair or hide of that." Lorean replied.

"But we should prepare. Even if you don't believe in the Others, you do believe in Mance Rayder? The King beyond the Wall?" Asked Triston, his eyes boring into the Westerman.

"I do. But Lord Stark is well aware of this 'King' and no doubt is ready to call the banners at a moments notice. Skagos is removed from the Wall and Gift by the shivering sea and Seal Bay. We, personally, shall not be affected by the Wildlings." Lorean pointed out.

"You suggest treason as well as obliviousness." Triston pointed out, carefully, slowly. He didn't want to sound angry, merely allow the Maester to retract his words.

"I.. Of course my Lord." Lorean bowed his head slightly.

Triston spared one last look at the man before continuing.

"Is there anything else? Should I not be reading reports or..." Triston asked.

"Not today. Your Lord Father dealt with a lot of outstanding issues before he left for the capital." Lorean explained. Triston tapped two of his fingers against the table and nodded, before standing out of his chair.

"Lorean. Have the steward prepare court for a journey within the week." Triston ordered.

"Triston?" Asked his mother, looking into the near twin of her green eyes.

"I have met my father's bannerman only as a babe and when they have come to me. The Stanes and Karts, the Thenns, the Whalebornes of Skane. I need to see them all." Triston explained. "They don't know me. But they must."

Lorean nodded and began to rapidly scribble down some rough notes on a piece of paper.

"Just a drink before we go in Cregan," Triston said, slapping his friend on the back as they entered a Skagosi Tavern in Kingsdown. Without the presence of his father looming over him, Triston would allow himself at least one drink. And probably only one. He had seen what drink can do to men before, and he hardly wished to travel the same roads as his father had.

"I... Might need several." Cregan admitted as they passed the threshold of the Dragonglass tankard, the nicer but still dark and dingy Skagosi only pub.

The two boys walked up to the bar and sat upon plush Unicorn fur cushion bar stools.

"Have you ever bought a beer before?" Triston whispered.

Cregan nodded.

"As many problems as he's had with it, your Lord Father bought me my first pint when I turned six and ten. I also drank with Torrhen Whaleborne." Cregan replied.

"Then you do the talking," Triston replied, slapping Cregan on the back and making his way across the tavern, deciding to drink at a table rather than at the bar.

As he did so, he glanced to his right, to an old man that seemed to be staring at him.

"You're well dressed for a boy." The man said. His tone was not complimentary, but accusatory.

"Yeah. Well..." Triston wasn't quite sure how to respond. Admitting he was the Lord's son might stay the man's anger, or might bring it. Might prevent being robbed, or demand it. But it was not his decision to reveal his identity.

"You're... You're the Magnar's son? Aren't you?" Asked the old man.

"...Aye." Said Triston carefully, his hand falling upon his longsword gently.

"I... I remember you. The little babe. You stayed with my clan, all those years ago." The old man crooned.

"That's... Good to know ser. Now I..." Triston made to move, but the old man stood up and grabbed his wrist, dragging him into the chair opposite his own.

"Your father... The last Skagosi..." He said.

"Excuse me?" Asked Triston. He was a bit insulted in truth. His blood was as Skagosi as anyone else's. Well, he did have a northern mother, but he came from a family as inbred as the Targaryens, surely that made up for it.

"Oh. You'll make a fine Northern lord someday, that I have no doubt. Triston Magnar. High Lord of Skagos. But to you, Skagos is a place. A fiefdom. Skagos, to you, will be yours." Said the old fool, growing more and more melancholic with every word. He took a hearty swig of his drink, which as best as Triston could tell with his limited experience was a spirit of some description.

"But to your grandfather. And his father before him. And all the hundred Magnars and Crowls and Stanes. Driftwoods and Horsebreakers and Whalebornes... Skagos was never theirs. They did not presume to rule this land. Did not take!" The old man growled. "They were Stone! Unbreakable! Unbendable. Unchanging!"

"Ser. Maybe you've had enough to drink..." Triston turned to look at Cregan, who was waving him over, two tankards sat upon the bar. He shot his friend an awkward look.

"But your father... Your father. He learnt to make Stone. And New stone. In making this damn place of new stone, of whales and unicorns, he destroyed Skagos." The Old man bemoaned.

"You dare..." Triston turned fury eking into his voice.

"Once... Skagos was Skagos. We were Skagosi. Now we are Northmen, and Ibbenese, and Sistermen and Braavosi. Where are we now? How few are we? What remains of the blood of Crygmarr Magnar or Sygerrik Stane? What would Artor think if he saw this place now?" The old man said.

"I think..." Triston growled, shaking off the Old man. "That he, even he, might be glad his people do not starve. That we are the rulers of the Shivering Sea. That we..."

"At what cost! Where are the rest of them!" Shouted the Old man. "Lord Stane. Lord Driftwood. Gods, even the Crowls. They are all gone now. Pushed aside by your father in the name of progress. And I? Our clans? Our way of life? Gone. In ash and stone."

"My father brought Skagos into the modern world. Make us powerful. Made us rich." Said Triston.

"He made us godless! The Ashen grove sits as damaged now as it was in the battle. The rights of the Clans. Gone. Of the Lords. Gone. Our culture and history looked at by men in chains and admired for how quaint it is while your father tries to be something he is not. Northern. Or Ibbenese. But he succeeded in you. In all our children. In all of us." Tears formed at the edges of the man's eyes.

"And what great history was that? Cannibalism? Mockery of the rights of Men and Women alike? Poverty? Are these to be cherished!?" Challenged Triston.

"And what of it? How dare he insult these things. Your father was a drunk. A kinslayer. A madman who got lucky! And yet he judges us!" Shouted the Old man. Triston's hand once again fell to the hilt of his sword, but he tried to steel himself. "It was not all this way. We were sculptors of Dragonglass. The last people to speak the Old tongue south of the Wall. We kept the old songs alive."

"But there is no place for the songs now. The children don't want to hear of it. They want stories of Symeon Star-eyes or the Last Hero. Same as all the rest of Westeros." He whispered.

"I was a Clan leader once — the Whiteirons. We raided. We traded. We fought. But now... Now they are gone. My son died in a whaling accident. My daughter married to some White Harbor trader. So many settled down here, or in Roseton. They wear clothes of tanned leather or velvet. They wear perfumes and silks. But only I remain. Only I..." The Old man began to break down.

"The rest of them are gone. Dead, scattered or given up. There is no place for the Clans in the world Cregan Magnar has created. No. We are smallfolk now. And we too old to change will die, a sad distant relic of a time long gone." The Old man explained.

Triston remembered. He had met this man before. Only a few years ago, in his Father's study.

"The Stanes are little more than your fathers whipping boys. The Karts even less. Not even Skagosi. And we are outnumbered. We... Are gone." The old man said.

Spoiler: Music_

Appendices: Skagosi Culture-298AC

Maester Lorean's private notes

Over the years I have written much on the Skagosi and their way of life. I wrote of cannibalism. Of the first night and the runestones and their heroes. And now, I speak of them.

Born of the Old stone is not merely the words of House Magnar of Kingshouse and Skagos, the undisputed rulers of the Skagosi archipelago. But it is a code of ethics that has remained amongst the people of this once harsh land for thousands of years. They and the Thenns of the Valley of Thenn beyond the wall might have once been called the last of the First Men.

The Skagosi once spoke the old tongue as a second, if not primary, language. They sacrificed living men to the Heart trees. They considered Guest right more important than even the curse of Kinslaying. They had words and names of their own of course. Thousands of years of on and off isolation has caused cultural drift.

But now, as the Skagosi adapt to a far more urban economy and way of life, as the struggles of the past abate and the hinterlands are settled by subsistence farmers, and not the once untamed wilderness of years past, I have oft asked myself what great difference is there between the Skagosi and their northern neighbours. They worship the same gods. Speak the same language. Have near enough the same names and customs. Same societal make-up and nobility. Indeed, any uniqueness of the modern Skagosi may well be picked up by foreign elements. The Braavosi and Sistermen. And especially the Ibbenese.

Is it a shame? To watch a culture as harsh as the Skagosi once was die? Or is it a blessing? To know that there will likely never be another Artor Magnar the Terrible, or Crygmarr the burnt, or perhaps even another Cregan 'The Red Unicorn' Magnar?

I could not say. Skagosi culture lingers on, in the children. But in a few decades, those born before Cregan Magnar ascended to the Lordship of the shittiest part of the shittiest part of the Seven Kingdoms will be gone. And in their place will be those brought up in wealth, and plenty. Will they be Skagosi? Will they even consider themselves Skagosi? Or shall they go the way of all those in the Kingdoms that make up Westeros. Consumed into the mega-cultures of the Westermen, Reachers, Stormlanders, Crownlanders, Riverlanders, Valemen and Northmen? Forgotten, as a relic of a bygone era, where life was difficult on the archipelago of Skagos.

Gods. I can never publish this shit.

Last edited: Feb 1, 2019

"I mostly assumed it was you shitposting but on a level of irony where you had become genuine as well" -Fancy Face

"If you've read any Carcosa fic, you know not to keep your hopes too high." - The Last Bullet

"I know right! Best not to hope for anything, then be surprised by everything." - Alucardan1

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Feb 25, 2019

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"Good morning." King Rhaegar said as he sat again at the end of the table. The rest of them nodded and repeated his words, some more strained than others. "What are the matters of today?"

Cregan and Grafton shared a glance with one another. The Skagosi had wanted to bring up Dragonstone again, but Grafton admitted he didn't want Aegon gathering too much power on his own, especially in case Rhaegar started to lose his marbles. Both of them had privately brought up their fears that the son of the Mad King was more akin to his father than anyone had thought. Arianne had argued with Grafton that her cousin gathering power was hardly a bad thing, but Grafton was having none of it. Dragonstone brought in wealth to the Royal coffers via its tithes and taxes on ships passing by and the Crown needed coin.

As per their agreement, they dropped the issue. It was not one any of them were too interested in, for surely Aegon could argue with his father himself if he wanted Dragonstone.

There was a matter the three of them had agreed on though.

"The Vale." Cregan said bluntly. He had resigned himself to being the bearer of bad news and to bring up topics that clearly annoyed the King. He would never gain the friendship of Rhaegar, not least because he had killed his best friend nearly two decades ago, so there was no harm in pissing him off. Arriane and Marq, on the other hand, wanted to be here and wanted to get on Rhaegar's good side. "Your grace, your lackadaisical attitude to the future war brewing in the Mountains is going to ruin the realm."

Even Tywin spared him a glance, for few were willing to speak that bluntly to the King. Of course, the other men and women around this table wanted to be here. Cregan wanted... He had no idea, but whatever he wanted it wasn't in this stinking city.

"Lord Magnar. As I have told you before, I will not step on the ancient rights of House Arryn."

Cregan slammed his fist into the table, causing even the usually stony king to flinch slightly.

"Damn you Rha... Your grace." The Skagosi took a breath calming himself down. "You have a duty to prevent war. This is easy. Just name one of them his inheritor. For fuck's sake, I don't care which, just do it."

"Watch your tongue Skag. You may be on this council, but my Goodson is your King." Tywin growled.

"With all due respect Lord Hand, should you not wish to prevent the coming war in the Vale too? Wars are bad for Westeros. I am glad to have lived through one of the longest periods of peace in the Seven Kingdoms, and I would quite like that to continue." Cregan said, turning to the Old Lion.

Out of the corner of his eye, Cregan could see the annoyance on Rhaegar's face grow as Cregan seemed to show more deference to the Lord of the Rock than the King of the Seven Kingdoms.

"His grace has already made up his mind on the issue. The chivalry of the Vale is coming here for Aegon's Nameday tourney, the matter shall be decided then." Tywin said. Mace Tyrell nodded his approval.

Cregan wanted to scream. He turned again to the King.

"Your Grace. I am but a poor Skagosi, hardly worthy of this illustrious council." Cregan began.

Please fire me please fire me.

"But I know what happens when two men both desire the same chair. I have fought pretenders to the Lordship of Skagos. Hundreds have died. I have thought to install Kings and to prevent them from being installed. With but a word you might end this conflict before it erupts into chaos." Cregan pleaded.

"I have other matters to attend to Lord Magnar," Rhaegar said simply, scratching his chest.

Fine. Fuck this.

"I assume you are talking about the Others beyond the Wall your grace?" Cregan said, metaphorically placing his cards on the table.

The Small Council, Arianne, Mace, Marq, Tywin, Gerold and Pycelle, all turned to him. They all thought he was mad. Let them. Cregan would not hide behind ignorance anymore.

"The Long Night is coming again. That's what dominates your thoughts now no? Dreams of Frozen Fire and Ice that walks?" Asked Cregan, leaning back slightly in his chair, his sole grey eye boring into the King of the seven kingdoms.

Rhaegar seemed struck, before he collected himself, scratching his chest before speaking.

"My lords, Lady, it seems Lord Magnar has been drinking, as we all know he is want to do." The King said lightly. Cregan almost seethed at the words but kept neutral. "I will discuss his duties alone. The rest of you, take court. We shall reconvene in a few hours."

The Small council glanced between the two of them, Marq and Arianne especially looking at him with utter bewilderment. But sure enough, they left the council chambers. With a nod of his head, Lord Commander Hightower also left, and Jaime Lannister left the room as well. Cregan unclipped his sword belt and threw it onto the table, as proof he had no intention to harm Rhaegar with his guard out of the room.

For a moment the two of them sat there in silence, simply staring at one another before Rhaegar spoke.

"You know." It wasn't a question; it was simply a statement.

"I've known for nearly twenty years," Cregan admitted. "I have seen them in my dreams. Followed their movements beyond the Wall. Sent spies and scouts into the Frostfangs and the Haunted forest to track lone Walkers."

"And yet, until now you have been silent?" Asked Rhaegar, his eyebrow raised.

"Silent? No. I have simply not told the entire Realm. I never had much in the way of objective proof, and as you so wonderfully put, my reputation is hardly spotless." Cregan replied. He leaned forward in his chair, interlocking his fingers. "How Long have you known?"

"I dreamt of them. A white dragon with a sole red eye showed me them when I was four and ten. I devoted my life to trying to become the Prince that was promised, to stop them. But..." Rhaegar paused, rolling his tongue in his mouth to try and find the words.

"We are not friends." Rhaegar eventually stated.

Cregan chuckled.

"No. We are not."

"Shall we be honest with one another Lord Magnar?" Said Rhaegar.

"I figure that we've gone as far as we can with our lies. Let us see if the truth works." Cregan replied.

"I killed my father," Rhaegar said bluntly.

"I know," Cregan replied. "I know you know I knew that."

"Of course," Rhaegar said, running a hand through his silver hair.

"I died," Cregan admitted. Rhaegar looked at him strangely, urging him to explain. "When I was fighting in Ibbish. Came back to life by some foul magicks."

"Truly? Euron mentioned those rumours but..."

"Euron is probably the most dangerous person in the world, and you need to hunt him down and destroy him." Cregan urged. Rhaegar sighed, scratching his chest again.

"I... Am not blind to his cruelties. I unleashed him on my brother, for he gave me such... Things." Rhaegar explained, a mad glint in his violet eyes for a moment. Cregan furrowed his brow. Unleashed him on his brother?

"What do you mean?" Asked Cregan carefully.

"I needed... Spells. Euron was only too happy to oblige. The cost was great, but the rewards were as well." Rhaegar explained. Or nearly begged. Insisted upon this fact.

"Your grace..." Cregan whispered.

"None of that Cregan Magnar. We are beyond titles now." Said Rhaegar.

"If you know about the Others, then you know we need to gather the realm at the wall. We need to support the Night's watch. We need to begin preparing for the worst Winter since the Long night. Food, materials. Nothing else matters but..."

"I'm a fake Magnar." The King admitted.

"You are many things Rhaegar. Some bad, some good. Same as any other man. But even I would hesitate to call the man who ruled with seventeen years of peace a fake." Cregan tried to console, not entirely believing his own words.

Rhaegar laughed a bitter laugh.

"Men like me... We'd do extraordinary things to give our lives purpose." Rhaegar explained. "When I was a young boy, I wanted nothing more than to be a bard. A singer. I loved the songs and tales of great men, I had no desire to be one myself. But my father... My father was a terrible man. Nearly ruined the Kingdoms with his madness. Drew the ire and hatred of any he talked to. Threw aside competent men and put lickspittles and traitors in their place. I knew I couldn't stay free."

"My Great great uncle gave me a book of prophecy. I do not know why, such things had ruined his brother and nephew. Nearly destroyed the Targaryen family. But I read them. And in them... I saw purpose. A sense of self beyond the songs. I could not sit by and simply sing about great men. I had to become one myself. Threw myself into training in arms and rule." Rhaegar explained.

"You accepted duty. A noble thing." Cregan added.

Rhaegar shook his head.

"Duty? No. That's the terrible truth, Cregan. It was all vanity. I saw my father, the cruel failure of a King and I wanted to be better. I lied to myself about duty and prophecy. But I know now surely it was vanity. To be seen as better than my father. To push aside Aegon the unlikely and Jaehaerys the Conciliator as great kings. To claim to be the Dragon, not a mad incestuous king held there only by inertia." Rhaegar explained. "Everything I have ever done is simply to be remembered as a great king and hero. And I'm not even sure that shall be my legacy. For what roads have I built? What rights have I championed? I saw the glitter of rule, the swords and titles and splendour of court, and thought this made me great."

"The why we do things does not matter." Cregan butted in. "At the end of the day, only I know why I have done the things I have done. And sometimes even that is not true. We shall be judged by our actions, not our reasons."

"And what will be my actions? What shall I be remembered for?" Asked Rhaegar. "As a tied, dying man with a crumbling Kingdom, staring down a winter I shall not see the end of?"

"Dying?" Asked Cregan carefully.

Rhaegar sighed, looked deep into the Skagosi's eye, and lifted his doublet.

Cregan flinched as he saw the Stone touch upon the King's chest. Watch in horror as the grey stones moved with his breath, writhed like worms on his skin.

For a long moment, Cregan could neither say or do anything but stare at that Greyscale. He looked up, into the broken King's eyes.

"I approach the end of my life, and I behold the futility of it all. Here I am at the end of vanity." Said Rhaegar, gesturing to his body, to the dark council room no different than it was twelve years ago.

Cregan clenched his teeth, thinking carefully on what to say.

"Mine your courage from a different lode now. Duty. Survival. Your children. Brotherhood." Cregan said.

Rhaegar blinked, a small smile on his lips.

"Could we be brothers Cregan? I would like that very much."

Spoiler

Last edited: Jun 13, 2019

"I mostly assumed it was you shitposting but on a level of irony where you had become genuine as well" -Fancy Face

"If you've read any Carcosa fic, you know not to keep your hopes too high." - The Last Bullet

"I know right! Best not to hope for anything, then be surprised by everything." - Alucardan1

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Trigger warning: Yes, really. The following chapter contains direct mentions of infant mortality. I shall place a further warning for where you should stop reading if such things greatly upset you.

The master of Ships. For most of history, the title was held by a single family, the Velaryons of Driftmark. Indeed, this family of the Old Blood of Valyria had held the title for so many generations that it was once thought the title was simply hereditary. But then, when the Targaryens stopped marrying the same few families or each other just before Daemon Blackfyre's rebellion. With that, the Velaryon's lost their power in the capital, to be replaced by Redwynes, Tarths, all manner of houses with strong naval ties beyond the Blackwater.

Then Aerys came to the throne, the same Aerys that had married his sister whether he wanted to or not. And Lucerys Velaryon found himself back on the small council.

But now Rhaegar was king. Rhaegar who married a Martell and a Lannister. Rhaegar who actually bothered to let Council members retire rather than simply try and outlive them. Gods know that wasn't going to happen.

So Monford Velaryon had been most put out when his father died, and yet he received no grand invitation to sit upon the Small Council. He had been fighting with the Regents of Dragonstone for a number of years, and once again the King had snubbed them.

Worst, it soon became common knowledge that the man in his rightful seat was none other than the deplorable Lord Cregan Magnar. Once accused of both Murder and attempted Regicide. And then there were the other rumours surrounding the Lord of the most distant island of the Kingdoms. A Skinchanger, a winesot, undead, carrying incredible wrath that had made him break guest right. A Kinslayer, Oathbreaker, a man so thoroughly without honour he had given a mercenary one of his lordships, had brought in Ibbenese men to hunt whales, had cut down men at his daughter's funeral.

Of course, when Monford ruled Driftmark in his father's absence he had many dealings with the Skagosi. One did not own a seat on the Narrow sea without giving harbour to their whalers and traders. Buying Ice, Ivory, Crucible steel or Ambergris from their traders or selling fruits, grain and even volcanic ash to them. Trade links between Skagos and Driftmark had been strong.

That did not mean Monford liked the Lord of that blasted isle, though the two had never met. Until today.

The Skagosi was slightly older than the Velaryon. He looked good for his age if one ignored the bandage and ruined eye on the right side of his face. Or the shadow beneath his one working eye. Currently, he was looking deeply into his fine Myrish glass filled with cold water. Why he had not ordered Wine as he was known to drink by the bucketful he did not know.

"For what might I owe the pleasure of your visit Lord Magnar?" Asked Monford, making his distaste for the man clear in his voice.

"King Rhaegar has slighted house Velaryon, we both know this fact," Said Lord Magnar, turning to Monford at last. He was surprised to hear the truth stated so bluntly. Clearly, his surprise was apparent, for Lord Magnar barely held back the wry smile on his face.

"Sorry. I'm Skagosi, we're allowed to be blunt and to the point. I think I wrote it into my code of laws." Lord Magnar broke into a full smile at this point, and Monford relaxed slightly, running a hand through his pearl white hair.

"Of course. House Velaryon must simply take all slights from house Targaryen with as much dignity as we can draw upon. It is nice to know we are not alone in this account." Monford japed. He reached for his own glass, this one actually having wine in it.

"So, I am officially here on the King's business. He seems to believe that my diplomatic and easy touch might soothe the 'outrageous slights House Velaryon has afflicted upon the Crown', because he has read that damnable book Axel Stagbreed commissioned." Lord Magnar explained with a wave of his hand.

Monford seethed at the insult Rhaegar had apparently given his noble personage and house, but then curiosity won out in his internal battle.

"Book?" He asked simply. Lord Magnar sighed.

"My old friend commissioned a book a few years back of our Ibben voyage. I should have guessed when my own Maester asked me to write my own experiences of Ibben to send somewhere that someone was doing something with that knowledge, but I assumed it was Roland Storm trying to see if he could get legitimised. Should have guess Axel was looking to make a quick Dragon." The Skagosi explained.

"Is it good?" Asked Monford, temporarily distracted from the slights of the court of King's Landing.

"Gods no. Ser Stagbreed has certainly embellished bits of it and threw in this thing about me dying and coming back from the dead. According to the book he and I cut down hundreds of Dothraki and even stormed a castle for the Godking of Ibben. Also, it speaks glowingly of Endrew Tarth, when personally I barely remember he was there," Lord Magnar admitted. "He also threw in this romance he pretends he had with a Valyrian slave he rescued from the Dothraki, something that certainly never happened. I also come out far more diplomatic and brilliant than I was in reality. He left out that I once threatened to eat Lord Morhen."

Monford wasn't quite sure how to respond to that, both because he didn't know who Morhen was and also because he had never known someone to threaten to eat another human being. Lord Cregan Magnar was Skagosi after all, that wasn't the idlest of threats.

"Anyway, we aren't here to discuss past glories and failings. We are here to discuss the Royal fleet." Said Lord Magnar, sitting down at the fine polished oak table. Lord Monford sighed and followed after him. Monford took the head of the table, and Cregan showed deference by sitting to his left.

"Dragonstone is currently being run by an idiot by the name of Ser Jon," Monford explained before he was cut off by the barking sound of Lord Magnar's laughter.

"Holy shit. That's the most generic name I've heard yet. Ser Jon? Is he trying to be forgotten?" The Skagosi japed.

"I think he might have been forgotten. King Rhaegar likes to send over no-name knights to rule Dragonstone each year, let them feel big. I have repeatedly pleaded he send someone who actually has training in ruling a fief. A steward perhaps. Hell, I'd even just take someone with knowledge of naval trade and combat. But it falls to me to fend off Pirates and raiders." Monford explained.

"If it is any consolation, I sort of know how you feel." Said Lord Magnar, running a hand through his hair.

"Do you?"

"Raiders from Beyond the wall, mostly with seal skin canoes braving Seal bay. Some Pirates from the Stepstones or paid off by the Braavosi or Lorathi chance our waters. But Whalers are surprising well armed." Cregan's brow furrowed for a moment. "You ever saw a man shot with a whale harpoon?"

"Can't say I have," Monford admitted.

"It... It is not a pretty sight. I saw it in Ibbish, and now occasionally pirate hunters like to show off their kills like they are hanging sharks out." Cregan mumbled, his grey eye shaking slightly.

Silence fell upon the two of them for a few moments.

"Anyway," Cregan said with a sharp clap, shattering the peace. "I am here to talk about the Royal fleet. I might be able to get Rhaegar to select a decent Regent for Dragonstone, to name his son and heir, or maybe even you for the position. All I ask for in return is your cooperation with me."

"And what is it that Lord Cregan Magnar wants my cooperation for?" Asked Monford.

Cregan coughed, then stared with his one good eye into Monford's own violet ones.

"I need to build the royal fleet up. Your father, may the Seven preserve him, did not do much to expand the fleet. War is coming to Westeros, and we need transports and escorts now." Cregan explained bluntly.

Monford seemed confused, and not merely at the half wildling talking about the Seven who are One.

"What war?" He asked.

A thousand answers rushed through Cregan's head.

The war for the Dawn. The Vale exploding? Tywin trying to put Maegor on the throne?

"There is always a war coming. We have been at peace for far too long. Since the last Blackfyre was slain, Westeros has never seen an actual war. But one only needs to look beyond the Narrow Sea to see that Essos is about to collapse. If another City falls to Greyscale..." Said Cregan.

"I get it." Monford sighed. "No doubt I shall have to foot some of the cost of such naval build up?"

"And shall reap some of the rewards, own some of the ships. Come on, you know how this works Lord Velaryon." Cregan said with an exasperated sigh.

"I apologise my Lord, but you can understand my caution. King Rhaegar has not done well by House Velaryon. Firing my father to replace him with that odious Ironborn, then returning him to his rightful seat mostly out of pity. Sending pathetic regent after pathetic regent to rule Dragonstone. Long ago my father asked for Rhaenys' hand for me. Rhaegar grew wroth at the mere suggestion a Targaryen would marry a Velaryon..." Monford squinted for a second, rolling his tongue around in his mouth, perhaps trying to form the words.

"And for what? His daughter of eighteen years is still unwed. Not even to her brother." Monford questioned. He had noticed the way Cregan cringed slightly at those words. The Skagosi also noticed he saw that.

"Sorry. My family has been pretty inbred for the last... At least one hundred years. So we are going to have to steer well away from cousin marriages and the like for a good while." The lord of Skagos explained.

"Hmm." Said the man whose family regularly married uncle and niece, cousins and siblings together since they were created in Old Valyria.

"So. Let's talk business..."

The Rest of the Small council had duties to do today. Or Perhaps all of them were fogging off responsibility. Rhaegar was busy with something that they didn't know about, but Cregan did. Perhaps that was why the Archmaester of the higher Mysteries was here in court today.

So, the duty of taking court had rested on Tywin and himself. Princess Rhaenys had stuck around, the wilful olive-skinned girl wishing to hear of Maester Marwyn, the famous mystic of the Citadel. Aegon was busy in the training yards, Daemon had not yet been awakened and Maegor was... Somewhere. Cersei with Rhaegar apparently. It wasn't Cregan's job to keep track of the royal family after all.

"Next." Said Tywin with a wave of his hand, almost leaning into the Iron Throne for a moment before he remembered himself. Or perhaps one of the thousand swords embedded itself into his ass.

And that Archmaester stepped forth. Cregan had feared he would've worn his mask, carried his rod and had his ring on, all made of Valyrian Steel. Though perhaps he wasn't allowed to take them out of the Citadel, for they were not there with him.

"My Lord Hand." Said the Maester in a far harsher and lower class voice than the Skagosi expected. Honestly, he looked half ibbenese. Short and squat, with an ugly broken nose and white hair coming out of his nose and ears. He seemed to chew on nothing, his thick jaw rolling as he formed the words.

"I wished to speak to the King. I have something that would be of great interest to him." Marwyn said. Tywin's eyes narrowed. It was quite ballsy of the man to say that directly to Tywin.

Though it was Rhaenys, the King's daughter, who spoke next.

"You are Archmaester Marwyn correct? Of the Higher Mysteries?" She asked the kneeling man. He stood up and shot her a smug grin.

"You may call it magic Princess. I have been known to do so on occasion." Said the Maester. Cregan spared a glance to Tywin, who the Skagosi could tell was quite desperately holding back his anger and contempt to the Maester. For a moment, Cregan considered just leaving and checking on the Shipyards on the waterfront and the dragonglass shipments to the wall from Dragonstone.

"My Lord Hand, Valyria is the..." Marwyn began before Tywin spoke through gritted teeth.

"You're that maester." He growled. "My..."

The Lord of the Westerlands looked across the court as if noticing there was an audience for the first time. The Skagosi couldn't help but see the vein on the Lord's forehead, nor the anger in his eyes.

Cregan stepped in.

"Archmaester. Whatever madness you speak of in that accursed peninsula is best left in the past. King Rhaegar has better things to spend his..." The image of the crawling stone on Rhaegar's chest flashed in Cregan's mind before he continued. "Precious time and money on. I have heard of your attempts to go to the Valyrian Peninsula. I doubt..."

"My lord Magnar. I've heard of you. Surely a man as travelled as you might understand that in the interests of knowledge and history we should uncover the secrets of the Valyrians. Especially in these..." The Maester's voice lowered a tone. "Trying times."

Cregan pointedly ignored that the Maester had quite rudely interrupted him.

"I hope you're not poisoning the minds of your students with this Marwyn. My Nephew has just gone to the citadel and I would hope that he does not attempt anything like what I did well over a decade ago," Cregan replied. He reached up to his face, placing his hand against the white bandage and the void behind it. "Such things did not end well for me."

"Lord Magnar," Princess Rhaenys stepped in. Cregan turned and nodded slightly to the olive-skinned princess.

"My lady," Cregan said simply.

"Allow the Maester his piece. My brothers and father may not care for such things, but court would be dreadfully short if our esteemed Maester did not have his chance to speak." The Princess ordered in the sweetest tone.

"By your word," Cregan replied, restraining the eye roll he so desperately needed.

Sensing perhaps that the two members of the Small council were hostile to him, Tywin because of Gerion, Cregan because of Jorramun, Marwyn turned instead to speak to the Princess alone.

"I and a fellow colleague have developed the means to survive in the harsh environment of the Doom. To breathe safely in the miasma of the ruin of the Dragonlords. To survive even what foul things remain in that accursed peninsula." Marwyn explained.

Foul things in that peninsula? There are living things in Valyria?

Cregan stood straighter, listening intensely while pretending not to.

"But these devices and artifices require money and resources. Far beyond the meagre means the Citadel or even the Hightowers have supplied." Explained Marwyn.

The Lord of Skagos heard the sound of scratching metal. Turning towards it, he saw Tywin grow even more wroth. He desperately wanted to admonish the words of the Maester, but it seemed the presence of so many people were holding the Old Lion back.

"With the resources and patronage of the crown, I and an elite team could head into the Doom of Valyria, where no living man has tread, and return with... I don't know. Perhaps their steel? Dragon eggs? Why, I reckon if we were lucky we might discover within those blasted cities and ruins the very secrets of both." Marwyn explained, a half-mad half greedy look within his eyes.

"Maester Marwyn," Cregan spoke up. "There have been half mad expeditions into Valyria and other foreboding places in the world for hundreds of years, and they all end the same way."

"Whether they travel into Yeen, or Valyria. Beyond the Sunset sea, into the lands of always Winter or into the terrible Ashlands of Stygai, not one has ever returned." Cregan explained. "This is no mere trading expedition to Ibben, as you have attempted to compare it to. Nor is it remotely comparable to, say, the Voyages of the Seasnake or Lomas Longstrider."

"Of course not, but..." Marwyn began.

"There was a Dragonlord shortly after the Doom by the name of Aurion. Thirty thousand men followed him and his dragons into Valyria. Not a one returned." Cregan turned to Tywin, and a single grey meet green. Tywin barely perceptibly nodded.

"My family knows of the dangers of the Doom quite well." Tywin began, his voice commanding the Maester to listen. "My ancestor took a fleet and even our family blade to Valyria. Neither came back."

"Of course Lord Hand..." Marwyn said, forming his words carefully. Unlike most who received such words from the Old Lion, Marwyn did not falter. "But there must always be a first. My Colleague Maester Hastur..."

"Hastur?" asked Cregan quietly to himself.

"Has done extensive testing with the suits and... Other things we intend to bring into the Doom. I assure you that we shall be the first to return." Marwyn explained.

"I'm afraid the two men of the Small Council might be too cynical in their old age to believe in anything but what they've seen or read about. You cannot blame them for their lack of imagination." Princess Rhaenys said to the Maester.

Old age? I'm barely thirty!

Whatever comments both Tywin and Cregan had in regards to the Princesses words they wisely kept to themselves.

"Perhaps we might discuss your expedition in private?" Asked Rhaenys, a half-mad glint in her eyes.

Toss a coin in the air I suppose.

"That would be..." The Maester almost, but not quite, stumbled over his words. But Cregan saw the grin playing on his face. "Most agreeable my Lady."

Rhaenys turned to Tywin, looking up to the Iron Throne.

"We shan't trouble you anymore Lord hand." She said with a soft smile, though the Skagosi didn't need two eyes to see the mischievous look in her eyes.

Didn't he order your death once?

"Your presence shall be missed Lady Rhaenys," Tywin said simply, barely sparring the eldest child of the King a glance, before motioning for the next courtier to speak their part.

A/N: All right, Trigger warning in effect from here on out.

He could not say why he came to the Godswood. There was no weirwood tree, merely an old oak. There was no chattering of Ravens watching him.

Cregan wasn't even remotely religious. If anything, he more strongly sympathised with the Seven than the Old Gods, but he was the Lord of Skagos, and certain things were demanded of him.

Still, it was a quiet place in the castle where few tread. His retainers and guards might, when they weren't mapping out the tunnels of the keep out to the bay, or watching over the new ships in the shipyard, or merely guarding his person.

The Lord of Skagos believed himself alone. He had told his guard to leave, simply patting Leviathan for an excuse.

And so, sitting in the roots of a great tree, he considered, seriously, what it was best to do.

The question was a large one. In his hand, he thumbed the letter his son had sent him from Kingshouse. Cregan Snow had been sent to the Night's watch. Wildlings were moving en-mass beyond the Wall. Eddard Stark had replaced him in the Winter Court. Mother had...

Mother had died.

That, perhaps, had brought him here.

He wasn't quite sure what he felt. The two had never been especially close. They had been distant since Cregan had... Executed her brother. Mayhaps she would never forgive.

Never did.

Then there was that mysterious bastard of hers. Cregan's only brother, now a man grown.

Were these people his family?

It was the same question he had asked himself when Sophia had died. Were these people, the Magnars, his?

By what right might he claim kinship with them? Yes, he remembered them far more than the wife he couldn't live with, nor the mother and father who were not nobility. He remembered Val and Orlia far more than... Them.

But he was another man. He was someone other than Cregan Magnar. And perhaps he should not...

The ideas were barely half formed in his mind, so confused were they. He had never truly answered the reality of it all. Whether he truly sat in the roots of this great tree on a late summer's evening. Whether he had truly lost his grey eye to the sword, whether he truly...

Truly had children that yet lived.

The Lord of Skagos did not shake his head clear, clench his fist and roar into action. He did not sweep aside such questions in some great attempt to do... Something. He did not even have his oldest friend and greatest enemy to drink away the question from his mind.

Ambition had driven him last time such questions reared their ugly head. Throwing himself into work. He was not that same man, not nearly that despondent and pathetic. He would not... Not disgrace himself and use his sword or fists. Instead, he sat there, in the roots of an ancient tree, and listened to the birds. Feel the sunset against his skin. Ponder silently, question silently, and act silently.

He closed his eye.

When at last he opened them again, a figure stood before him. He feared for a moment another hallucination, another part of some damaged corner of his mind. But from the small but ornate golden circlet atop her head, the golden curls falling around and beneath them, the deep green eyes staring back at him, and the curiosity within them held back by pride and arrogance, he knew this was no hallucination.

"My queen." The lord of Skagos said, bowing his head softly.

"Lord Magnar." Cersei Lannister, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, said simply.

"What brings you to the Godswood?" Asked the Skagosi.

Cersei Lannister looked the Lord of the Stone men up and down.

"I might ask you the very same question." She said.

Cregan smiled wearily and shook his head.

"Ill news. A place separate from the bustle of the rest of the keep." Cregan explained honestly.

To his surprise, the woman he knew to be mad simply nodded quietly.

"Ill news?" She asked.

Part of him screamed that she was plying him for information for some intrigue or subterfuge, but he found himself not caring.

"My Mother on Skagos has died," Cregan admitted. "Her and I were not close. I have... Had a few things I should have discussed with her."

Cersei, to his surprise, almost seemed sympathetic. Crocodile tears no doubt.

"We were almost married once," she said.

Cregan laughed.

"That was never going to happen my queen. You were meant for far greater things than the wife of an ill-mannered Skagosi." Said Cregan.

"Yes. The second wife of a King already with an heir." Cersei said.

Her tone was plain, and Cregan could not honestly work out what exactly she was going for with that.

"Believe me, you still dodged an arrow. I would be a poor husband. You can ask Lady Dacey Magnar. She will tell you of the trips to Winterfell, or my workload, or..."

"Your rage. Your fury. Your drunkenness and treachery." Cersei said bluntly.

Cregan swallowed, narrowing his one eye.

"Treachery." Cregan nearly spat out the word.

"Are those inaccurate Lord Magnar?" Asked the Lioness.

"Not anymore." The Skagosi replied, keeping his anger barely out of his words.

"I have heard tales of Lord Magnar over the years. How he threw himself into the sea. Stands atop his tower and looks over the edge. Wept when little Sophia Magnar breathed her last."

"Why are you here my Queen?" Asked Cregan carefully but pointedly.

Cersei seemed to mull over the question for a moment.

"How did Little Sophia die?" She asked.

Cregan nearly drew his sword there and then. Damn the Redcloaks he could see out of the corner of his eye. Damn the realm, damn it all.

The only thing that held back the wrath of the Lord of Skagos was her expression. Genuine, melancholic curiosity.

In the end, his hand didn't even land upon the hilt of the blade.

"She caught Pneumonia whilst I was away from Skagos. By the time I returned home it was too late for her to recover, too late for anything to aid her. She died..." He could not, in all honesty, say peacefully. Not till the end. "She died surrounded by her family."

Cregan wiped away the tear in his eye. Rage giving way to a familiar sorrow.

"Why did you ask." Cregan nearly demanded, forgetting his place in his anger.

Cersei answered quickly.

"I've lost daughters of my own. Quickly, unlike you. Small mercy I should suppose." She replied.

Cregan was surprised. As best he knew, Maegor was the only child of Rhaegar and Cersei, or Jaime or Cersei or whatever.

"Truly? I had not..." Most of his confusion came from the fact he knew or at least believed he knew, that Rhaegar wished for another daughter. Yet in their honest heart to heart with one another, there had been no mention of this.

"I would carry them for nine months. Nine months I would not drink, eat only what the Maester told me was safe, do only what a lady carrying a child ought to do. And each time, I would give birth. Pycelle would give me medicine, to deal with the pain..." Cersei nearly stumbled over her words towards the end, her guards on either side of her taking a silent step back.

"When I would awaken... Or remember, I am not quite sure, they would show me the child. Each time, there would be nothing of life there. The barest tufts of white hair, violet eyes... And deathly pale skin. Like there was not a single drop of blood in them." Cersei said, the blood seeming to drain from her own face.

"Every single daughter of mine, all three of them over the last ten or more years, has died. Each one never having the chance to breathe. Each one... Never to be." Said Cersei, staring into distant space, her face devoid of emotion.

Then, sharply, she turned to him.

"I know my Husband is dying. I know that for a fact. There's nought my father, or you, or that... Fucking Ironborn could do." She nearly spat out the words at the end.

"As do I." Said Cregan rather uselessly.

"And when he does... I fear for my son's life. My only son." She said.

And here, the machinations surely lay clear. She sought, clearly, to manipulate him out of sympathy, to kill the other two. Or to make Rhaegar disinherit the first two? Or to do something for Maegor? For her?

And the more the Skagosi thought, the less clear it was to him what exactly the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms had come to him for, if not merely to tell him of her dead children and taunt him with his own.

"I ask you again Queen Cersei. Why are you here?" Asked the Skagosi carefully.

Next chapter: The other Dragons! Where are the dragon eggs? Cregan Snow at the Wall!

Join me next time in "The King's Landing Disaster, part one."

Last edited: Apr 23, 2019

"I mostly assumed it was you shitposting but on a level of irony where you had become genuine as well" -Fancy Face

"If you've read any Carcosa fic, you know not to keep your hopes too high." - The Last Bullet

"I know right! Best not to hope for anything, then be surprised by everything." - Alucardan1

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Lost Carcosa

Apr 23, 2019

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Lost Carcosa

Lost Carcosa

Take off your mask

May 25, 2019

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#1,582

In his dreams, he found himself at the root of a tree. Unlike the one within the Gods Wood, this one was white. Its leaves were red. The face upon it his own.

There were no crows in the tress. No ravens. The stars were not a thousand eyes and one. Though the forest around him burned and its embers rose into the night sky, there was no moon. No light.

Ash was on his tongue. He could taste it. It tasted like wine. Like drink. It tasted of sorrow.

But he was not here for memory.

He was here for something else.

And so, The Lord of Skagos, Cregan Magnar, sat at the root of a great weirwood. And close his one steel eye, and opened another.

The boy was skilled with arms. The Skagosi would not dispute that. The eldest of Rhaegar's three children, the ever so close to six and ten Aegon. He was as tall as a man at six foot, with brilliant silver hair. His smile was flawless, even as he wore it while beating up the replacement master of arms of the Red keep, Lord Saron Roxton.

"You could use your Valyrian steel my Lord, and I'd still defeat you with this stick." The Prince said, with all the arrogance and pride of youth matched with skill.

Lord Roxton was not an idiot however and wouldn't draw live steel, especially Valyrian steel, on the heir to the Seven Kingdoms. Even though Cregan could tell the man wanted to.

"Do you yield my lord?" The boy asked with not a hint of humility.

"I yield my Prince," Saron said, holding up his hands. The prince nodded and reached out to take the Reacher lord's hand into his own and help him to his feet. He patted the lord on the back.

"A good show my lord," The Prince said with a smile, lifting the spirits of the poor man he had just beaten up. The boy looked around the training yard, and eventually, his eyes fell upon Cregan.

"Lord Magnar! I've read of your exploits in Ibbish. Ser Axel wrote you were a fine swordsman!" Prince Aegon shouted.

Cregan laughed.

"He also wrote that I died and came back. He also wrote that the Ibbenese are in awe of Westeros, when I believe that could not be further from the truth," The Skagosi replied.

"Come now. A man does not fight in three battles and learn nothing from them," said the Prince.

"A man can fight a hundred battles, and learn only in his hundredth and first what a waste they had been," The Skagosi replied.

"Come on Skagosi. You would not wear that sword at your hip if you were not a warrior," The Prince pointed out. The Skagosi glanced down to the plain hilt of Leviathan. Despite being reforged twice, the handle of the blade had never once changed.

"Very well my prince."

Cregan removed his sword belt as he walked towards the rack of wooden swords, daggers, axes and tourney lances. Gently he tied it around the rack, then reached over to grab a dagger and a bastard sword, both of fine oak.

He rolled his shoulders and opened his red eye. Hephaestion was in the stables, resting. It would be of no use to him to see out of that eye.

So he tried something else. Glancing around the yard, the Skagosi espied for any spare eyes he might use. He had never done this before, but it had been years since he had fought out of sight of Hephaestion. So he needed some new ones.

His eye fell upon a gull, watching from the walls. He reached out to the bird.

Push and Pull

Walk like him, until he must walk like you.

For half a heartbeat, he dreamt of this life. For half a heartbeat, he had always been a Gull. He remembered eating worms and bread and fish in market stalls. He remembered flying. That was new for him. And yet...

How could he not fly? How would he know?

Perhaps we can all fly? How would we know unless we leap from some tall tower?

When he opened his eyes, they were one and three.

"Are you ready?" Aegon challenged. He held up his longsword and shield both, ready for the attack.

The two figures nodded.

Aegon charged. Gallantly he swung his longsword into Cregan's left side, hoping to smash it into his hip.

The Skagosi parried it aside with his dagger, catching the blade in the guard. He twisted his hand slightly to trap it there for a moment before harshly pulling back with the dagger, bringing the sword and the boy holding it back. The Skagosi then simply lifted his sword and smacked the boy in the head with the side of it. The Prince fell to the floor as the Skagosi stepped aside to allow him to do so.

"A fair try my Prince," Cregan said, letting go of the Gull and allowing it to fly away.

The prince groaned for a moment before Cregan helped him to his feet.

"When I was five and Ten, I lost my first melee quite badly. There is no shame in that. There shall be no greater teacher than experience," Cregan said to console the prince.

"Perhaps I need a new sparring partner..." The Prince mumbled, shrugging off the Skagosi.

In that sleep, did he dream.

Again, he found himself back in the burning forest. Again, in the ashen grove. Embers and ash both thick in the air.

With this kiss, I seal my love.

Black of hair, blue of eyes, old of soul and devoid of love.

With this kiss, I seal my love.

Brown of hair, brown of eyes. A young soul, sacrificing love for duty.

And the realm entire was held in their conjoined hands.

The boy rested in the sunlight. A single dragon egg in his lap.

"My Prince? A man is here to see you," One of the maids said as she walked in front of the chair, to look into the boy's eyes.

He mumbled some response, and gingerly the Skagosi moved in front of him.

Daemon Targaryen was looking to the sun with milky white eyes. Drool collecting on his lower lip. His skin was sickeningly pale, his hair matted and unwashed for quite some time. As Cregan sat on the bed to his side, he could watch the boy shiver and shake even as he tried to still himself.

"Daemon Targaryen," Cregan said with a sad smile. "I see you're enjoying that dragon egg?"

Daemon didn't seem to respond to the Skagosi's words, nor make it clear he had even heard of him.

"I was the one that gave them to your father over a decade ago. Why, you weren't even born then," Cregan continued.

Daemon Targaryen was four and ten. The second in line for the throne. Maesters had been unsure he would've survived the first months of his life. Some crueller men had suggested mercy, as if killing a child was mercy and not cruelty. The boy did not make it obvious if he had ever heard any of that. He could no doubt feel the warmth of the sun on his face. The texture of the dragon egg in his lap. He could hear the words the Skagosi was saying, though he could not make it clear if he understood it.

"Why do you keep the dragon egg in your lap?" Asked the Skagosi lightly, with as much kindness as the bitter man could call upon. He knew better than to reach out for it.

The boy simply shook his head ever so softly. He flipped his hand. Cregan knew a dismissal when he saw one. Nodding to the Prince, he stood up, sparring only a single glance to the onyx orb in his lap.

And in that sleep, he dreamt.

In the heart of the shadow, at the end of the world, surrounded by twelve sons, the last fire roars.

Prince Maegor turned to the Skagosi, moving aside his blonde hair from in front of his face. The boy had settled down in Cregan's office, and the Skagosi had yet to suggest he move elsewhere.

"What are you working on?" Asked the youngest of the three princes. The Son of Rhaegar and Cersei. Violet eyed with golden hair, a face not unlike his mothers. Curiosity glowed in those eyes, and the truth as well. Not that the boy had known it, but Cregan had been waiting to see those eyes, waiting for confirmation and denial. With what he saw, he knew that he had only one more man to speak of. To ask to do something terrible. But first, he'd answer the boy's question.

"I'm not truly working on anything my Prince. This is a letter from my son," The Skagosi explained. He pointed to the green wax seal upon it, with an imprint of a lobster upon it. "In it, he explains that he is well. That Skagos is prospering and preparing, and that..."

Cregan checked those last few lines again, then laughed bitterly. That was quite a headache. Brandon would have words with him.

"That my namesake ward has arrived at the Wall. And then, gone missing beyond it," Cregan said with a shake of his head. "Never even took his vows."

The strangest thing was, it was not fear for his life, or anger at the boy that won out as the dominant emotion. It was pride. That the boy refused to kowtow to his father's whims. What more, this might be useful. If the Others were moving beyond the Wall, then so to were the Wildlings. And to have a boy that his son knew well on that side might make negotiations that much easier. When the time came.

"Brandon Stark's bastard?" Asked Maegor. The question had surprised Cregan. He looked up from the letter.

"Yes. Cregan Snow. Named after me, back when I and my liege were..." The Skagosi admonished himself for admitting perhaps too much.

"The Dayne?" Asked Maegor. Now that was surprising. Clearly this third son was well informed.

"Yeah. Half Wolf, half falling Star," Cregan replied. "He was my ward for the last decade."

Maegor simply nodded. Cregan smiled. And slowly, as he realised what it was he might have to do to save the realm, his smile began to crack and break. He needed to speak to the King.

Cregan prepared himself for the most difficult conversation he might ever face.

"Your Grace," The Skagosi said bluntly. The two men were alone in the small council chambers, the King of the Seven Kingdoms scratching at his chest.

"I know Lord Magnar," The Valyrian replied. Each day, his voice grew a little hoarser. Each day, Cregan swore he heard the sounds of crumbling stone beneath the silver words of the silver King.

"You've months left. At best. Before long, the disease shall spread up your chest beyond your ability to hide it. Each day you risk infecting another. And the realm need only look to the East to fear the disease. To fear their king..."

"Do you think I don't know that Lord Magnar? That I sit in this chair, in this Gods forsaken city desperately tearing at my lungs to draw but a single breath? That I can ignore the sounds I hear every time I twitch and breath? That I do not miss being able to hold my sons, my wife, my friends?" Rhaegar asked angrily, before running a hand down his face.

"So why are you leaving all these things? The Vale? Rosby? Your..." Cregan began, but his will to bring up harsh truths began to fail him.

"My own death? My children's inheritance?" Asked the King. "I know of these things Lord Magnar. And I know of greater things. Prophecy."

Cregan nearly wept in frustration.

"Rhaegar. Listen to me. Prophecy means nothing. The other day, I asked Thoros to make one up for me. He obliged when I handed him my glass of wine that some idiot servant had given to me. Do you know what he said?" Asked the Skagosi. Rhaegar looked genuinely curious, which only succeeded in pissing off the Lord of Kingshouse more. "He told me 'One to kill, one to save. One to burn, one to fade. And the last to end'. All of that is complete fucking gibberish to make a man try and attach it to anything."

"It could mean..." Rhaegar began, trying desperately to attach it to his life. To divine some meaning from a drunk Red priest.

The Skagosi rolled his eye.

"It could mean fucking anything. If it's the five great men I've killed in my time, I killed Petyr out of fear, I killed Varys to save myself, I killed Theon because he burnt, I killed..." And the Skagosi drew a blank. "Or, it could mean the parts of my life. I was a killer, a father. A mourner, a drunk. And now I simply wish for the threat of the Others to end. Prophecy is meaningless talk attempting to say vague shit and attach it to future events."

"How could prophecy be meaningless? You and I both know there are darker things in this world than man. Others and Dark Stars and Stone." Rhaegar pointed out.

For a moment, the Skagosi paused. He glanced to his hand, rolling an empty cup on the table.

"I know nothing. What I have seen are atrocities committed by man. If not by myself." The Skagosi said with a tired yet terribly sad smile. He remembered butchery and torture and drawn swords. He remembered a pyre. He remembered ash on his tongue.

The Skagosi drew his single steel eye from his hand to the King.

"Do you know what your wife told me?" Asked Cregan. The King shook his head.

"Tywin wants his grandson on the throne. By the laws of man, that would take three deaths. Yours, Aegon's, Daemon's," Cregan explained. The King's, The prince's and the broken boy's. "But you are dying. Your Daemon... Not suitable for the throne. One death stands between Tywin and his goal."

Rhaegar considered what Cregan was saying.

"Tywin wants Aegon dead?" He asked.

"Cersei believes he means to do it. It is not him I worry of Rhaegar." Cregan said, staring into the King's violet eyes. They were flecked with grey. Much like the King's hair now. How strange.

"Years ago... I was at Moat Cailin. I spoke to Rickard Stark and Brandon Stark. This was after... Harrenhal."

"Do you believe Rhaegar will turn against his father?" Asked Cregan. In a past life that hadn't happened, but the circumstances were utterly different this time.

"I don't know. Rhaegar should be going to Dragonstone to rule as it's lord. He might not be in his father's grasp. Ostensibly we are fighting to put him on the throne..." Said Rickard.

"Ostensibly?" Asked Brandon and Cregan.

"... What I'm about to say does not leave this room. Do you two understand?" Asked Rickard. Cregan gulped but nodded. And with his and Brandon's consent, Rickard began.

"Robert Baratheon has the blood of Targaryen's running in his veins. For years, we have watched with dawning horror as the King grew ever madder. But it is not just him we fear. Prince Rhaegar hides his madness well, but our spies speak of prophecy. Of scrolls. Of a different breed of madness," Rickard explained.

The Skagosi ran a hand through his hair as Brandon looked quizzical.

"So what? Targaryen's have always been mad," Brandon said with a shrug. "I'd rather the lesser madness of prophecy then what rumours I heard about Duskendale."

"And madmen were accepted to rule. Because they had dragons. But the dragons are long dead. When Jon, Steffon and Hoster fought on the Stepstones, fighting against yet another mad misshapen Dragon, they wondered why they were on that battlefield. Why we were fighting? They saw..."

The Lord of the North, a man nearly as cold as the snow outside stumbled on his words. The Skagosi had seen him do this when he spoke of Lyanna at her funeral, but now...

"Their madness brought us to these distant lands, fighting beneath a banner only the reverse of our enemy's. Steffon had no bastards line ready to invade four times in less than a century. Steffon didn't try and take our noble rights from us. Steffon..." Rickard laughed. "Steffon never would've made that pyre at Summerhall."

"Steffon is dead," Brandon said.

"His children yet live. One a warrior unmatched. One has the makings of a brilliant administrator. And the last, ready to be moulded into whatever is needed. What are the Dragons? A mad King? A mad Prince? A babe, a half Dornish one at that?" Asked Rickard. The Lord of the North turned to the Skagosi.

"Tell me Cregan. Which should rule? Those that have by their own insanity killed their own dragons, then would laugh at my daughter's death? Or the kind of man that would charge into battle to protect my son?"

Rhaegar didn't say anything as Cregan repeated the words of a long dead man.

"Rickard... Steffon?" Asked Rhaegar.

"Are both long dead now. It is not their ghosts I fear, but what they left behind," Cregan replied. "And it is not a fear that is unwarranted. Because..."

Cregan paused, sighed, then continued.

"Because such a conspiracy still lives," Cregan said.

Rhaegar searched his eye, hoping to divine the truth, or perhaps hoping to find a lie within it.

"What do you mean?" Asked Rhaegar.

"Brandon Stark is joined by marriage to house Tully. House Tully, to Baratheon by Stannis. Lannister is joined to your family only if your eldest two children were to die. Robert is to marry..." Cregan opened his third eye once more, and remembered what he had learnt at the roots of a great tree.

"He is to marry Margaery Tyrell. Jon Arryn would march beside the boy he considers his son, or his kingdom in such a state of disarray that it could not march at all," Cregan explained. "Dorne... Dorne may yet march beside you. Blocked by the Storms and Reach. The narrow sea hates you. The Ironborn... Gods only knows."

Rhaegar threw a golden chalice at a wall.

"I have had three master of Whispers. One a traitor, one a sorcerer, one the cousin of my son. Not a one has brought this up. Not a one!" Rhaegar shouted as he stood up, beginning to pace around the small council chambers.

"Why would Euron and Arianne both not mention this to me!" Rhaegar shouted. No. Not shouted. Pleaded.

"Euron is a snake, a bastard that I would like to see drowned or to plunge my sword into his heart," Cregan explained. "As for Arianne? She may simply not know. I only know because..."

Rhaegar looked to him, a mad fury in his eye.

"Because you agreed with it? Because you were a part of it?" Asked Rhaegar.

"Aye," Cregan admitted. "I was. I hated you Rhaegar. I knew what you would've done if Lyanna had not died that day. I knew the sort of man you were. I hate you. I know you to be mad. Had we the time, I would gladly help them depose you."

Rhaegar was struck by the honesty.

"What?" Was all the Silver King could ask.

"But we are out of time. The Long Dark draws ever closer. I care not for any of this. Politics, rights, titles or Thrones mean less to me than good steel, and a realm undivided, ready to face that same darkness," Cregan said. He made to stand, to look into Rhaegar's eyes. "There is no prophesied saviour of the world. There is no magic sword to be drawn from Nissa Nissa's breast. There is no one but us to stand fast. I shirked my duty once. In another life. I shall not again."

"Cregan..." Rhaegar muttered. The Skagosi ignored his king.

"And what I ask you to do Rhaegar is... It is something that I myself could not do. Something... Something that would make me take my own life had I to do it. But you must do it." Cregan explained.

"For the good of the realm. For us to prevent a realm divided amongst itself, and shattering completely..." The Skagosi paused. He thought again of Sophia. Her eyes. It was the worst thing. He had forgotten the colour of her eyes. Were they different between the two of them? Did they share that at least, despite having different fathers and mothers? "You have to..."

Last edited: May 25, 2019

"I mostly assumed it was you shitposting but on a level of irony where you had become genuine as well" -Fancy Face

"If you've read any Carcosa fic, you know not to keep your hopes too high." - The Last Bullet

"I know right! Best not to hope for anything, then be surprised by everything." - Alucardan1

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Lost Carcosa

May 25, 2019

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Threadmarks The Shadows Lengthen

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Lost Carcosa

Lost Carcosa

Take off your mask

Jun 4, 2019

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#1,608

Prepare for the literal darkest chapter:

Rhaegar's hand shook as he held the torch aloft, the amber glow lighting the black cell. His footsteps echoing in the nearly empty prison. Once he had been here before, to see the spider before his execution. Once, he had been beneath the earth and entered that abyss. He had been a younger man then. He walked down here full of righteous fury and kingly grace. Once, it had been justice.

This time, he was an older man. His chest was numb to the stone crawling up it, now reaching his shoulders. He walked not with pride or vanity, with justice in mind. This time, the abyss was not split apart by his torch. There was no waiting Knight dressed in white to stand beside him. This time, he bore no sword. It was just him now. He walked down the corridor, past black cell after black cell. The smell was foul. Human and Rat excrement thick in the air. On some cobblestones, he saw long-dried blood. Eventually, though, his journey came to its end, to a cell at the bottom of the corridor, beneath the earth. The only light was the one he had brought with him.

He turned, torch in hand, and looked into the cell.

For half a heartbeat, the eye glancing back at him glowed an ethereal blue, before settling to their natural steel.

"Your grace," The figure in the dark said in a terrible rasping voice, leaning towards the light from his crossed legged seat on the cold stones.

Cregan Magnar had seen better days. His already sharp cheeks gaunt. His skin pale, his hair matted. He had discarded his bandage across his missing right eye, revealing the mess of flesh void beneath. A terrible thing, writhing slightly in the darkness. Despite all that, despite what he had suffered here, away from the sun and far from light, he looked at his king with no malice. A dull acceptance. Waiting patiently for the King to speak.

"I had thought to find you worse," Rhaegar admitted. "This darkness is a foul place."

"Darkness is my cloak, my shield. It is my mother's milk... In the dark your Grace, I can see," The Skagosi talked cryptically. "In birds and rats, in unicorns and beetles, I saw your approach Rhaegar. I saw your heavy steps down here. I have seen much, observed much near and far. And I say the same thing I told you before..."

"You dare?" Asked Rhaegar, angrier now. He wanted to take the torch and set this barely living corpse alight, burn away the man that mocked him with a single eye.

"I dare, your grace. Rats and their blood shall sustain me beneath the earth. They come when I command them. So long as I live, my words remain unchanging. And I have died once before Rhaegar. Such fears are long gone," Cregan closed his steel eye for a moment, and for half a heartbeat the flame in Rhaegar's hand began to die, before roaring back as he opened it once more. "Beneath the earth, in this locked room, it is as if I had already died."

"Without light, you will soon perish. A man cannot subsist on blood and rats alone. The mind is a frail thing, and requires contact. Skin requires light and the warmth of the sun. I can wait you out," Rhaegar explained.

"Aye, maybe you can. But soon shall you perish as well. Soon all light will fade. The warmth of the sun be only a distant memory. These are the last days your grace, where the world shall be broken and remade," The fire atop the torch roared. "If we both do nothing, all life shall die. The enemy can wait us out to your grace, as we tear ourselves apart and rend our flesh from grief. And when we are ready for them, they shall descend from the white wastes, with shadow blades in hand. And we will welcome their coming."

The terrible gaunt figure shakingly got to his feet. Dressed only in a rough spin tunic that barely covered his genitals, Rhaegar could see just how much his month-long imprisonment and near starvation had weakened the man. His legs were little more than twigs, hollow things barely able to support the weight upon them. Cregan grabbed a bar of his cell desperately to drag himself up to stand. But despite his physical weakness, there was no doubt of his conviction. It was if his mind was separate from the body he controlled, hefting it up by the force of will alone.

"The flames shall burn so long as you live. When they die, so must you," Cregan said. "And when you die, the unicorn shall eat its children. The realm entire shall be set alight. Stone and Fire and Dark Stars shall drive us apart, and the Others shall take what is left."

Rhaegar stared into that sole steel eye.

"Why must I do these things? This terrible act you have commanded me to do? Why must the burden fall upon me?" Asked Rhaegar desperately to the scarecrow of a man.

"Perhaps I might play to your vanity? Some ancient lie that Lightbringer must be drawn from a loved one's heart? You did tell me that was a weakness of yours. But that would be a lie. Perhaps I might play to your sense of duty? That the realm is yours, and you must do what is right to protect it? But duty is so easily passed on to another. In a dying moment, what is duty but a chore?" Asked the Skagosi. "Perhaps I might talk of what comes next. When I died, your Grace, I dreamt. Mayhaps you shall too? Perhaps that might be some small comfort to you. But then again, perhaps that is a lie as well. No. You must do what I command because you have come too far to do otherwise."

And so, as if the word he spoke had given him some kind of subsistence, he let go of the bars and stood up straight in the cell. He seemed to loom over Rhaegar even in this terrible state. Even as the torch was in front of him, it felt like a shadow had passed across Rhaegar's face.

"You ignored duty. You played to vanity. What comes next is no comfort. You have made this bed, this world the way it is. I share that burden also, but there was only so much I could do. This..." With a bony finger, he tapped the cell's bars. "This is what I am here for. Now. To tell you to do as I command."

Rhaegar snarled against the dark, against the emancipated pale figure. Glared into that single, unblinking eye.

"You are a minor lord of some distant island. You are a vassal of a vassal. You are a drunkard. A Kinslayer. A braggart and a failure. You are..." Rhaegar began.

"Aye. I am many terrible and lesser things compared to a king of the seven kingdoms. Mayhaps I should have been born a Stark? Or a Baratheon? Or maybe even a Targaryen? Would you listen to me then your grace? Should I carry the blood of kings? Should there be some great title before my name? Should I have revolutionised the realm entire with but a few ideas?" The Scarecrow shook its head. "But there is not, and I have not. I am a mere lord of the house Magnar. First of my name. Stoneborn cannibal. It is not the Who I am that matters."

The Skagosi stepped back, into the darkness. Once again, only the soft glow of his eye stood out against the black. The ethereal blue steel.

"But the what. When I say these things, your grace, I do so out of love. Love of life and death. Love of vanity and humility. Love of duty and sloth. Love of hate and love, love of wrath and ruin yet love of peace and creation, love of fire and love of ice. Disparity. Humanity. The flames will burn so long as you live. When they die, so must you. So might all," The last words were spoken almost as a whimper. As a cry. But Rhaegar could see no tears in that sole remaining eye in the dark. Not an expression in that unblinking light in the dark.

"No. No. You said yourself. There is no prophecy. There is no fate. There is always a choice. And I choose..." Rhaegar began, to fight against the dark.

"There is but one fate for you should you refuse me. Look to your chest, to the stone that crawls up your skin and in your mind. What awaits you Rhaegar? What might you choose to do that shall let you escape what is to come for you? What is to come for you? Stone shall grip your mind and make it its own. Stone shall move your form. Shrouded Lords wait for you in the Sorrows, and in the Sorrows you shall go," The shadowed eye coughed, and stepped forwards, the Skagosi lit by the torch once more, his gaunt face alive with fury and resigned with sorrow. "There are but two fates. Two prophecies. Valar Morghulis. Valar Dohaeris."

Rhaegar cried. A single tear dripped down his stony cheeks.

"But he is an innocent," Rhaegar pleaded.

"And neither of us are. The ends do not justify the means. Hard decisions are themselves a failure, a refusal to search for another, better way. But we have both come too far now. Time is against us. Has always been against us," Said Cregan.

"Would you do as you command me? Would you kill your first-born child?" Asked Rhaegar. At first, the words were looking for some comfort, for the Skagosi to tell him to do his duty, but he grew angrier and angrier as he spoke. As the enormity of what the Skag demanded weighed more and more upon his soul. "Would you stare into those eyes you had seen since he was a babe, eyes you have nurtured and taught? Put your hopes and dreams into. Watched grow? Would you throw that aside?"

"No. I would not. I would damn the world to death and ice if I were commanded to do so," The Skagosi admitted. Rhaegar flinched and nearly roared in anger. He would command that his king should do something he would not? He is craven, yet demands strength?

"Aye. I am a craven, your grace. I have always been afraid of doing just that. Not my own passing. I would almost welcome that some days. An end to duty, an end to my suffering. An end mayhaps to all of this," He said, gesturing to his cell. "But to take my child? I would not. But at the end of days, I know you would. You're a good man Rhaegar. A better man than I."

"There are no men like me," Rhaegar whispered. Once, he had heard Jaime Lannister say that proudly, during some tourney or some other. Pride and vanity thick in his voice. Not unlike his own. Usually. This time his voice was thick with sorrow. With resignation.

With duty.

"No. For good or ill, you are alone," Cregan said with a nod.

"There is to be a tourney next week," Rhaegar said. "You would need to be presentable. Be able to stand."

"Here I stand," Said Cregan.

"Aye. Here you stand," Rhaegar said with a nod of his head. "You'll be needing to prepare for what is to come. I shall make my own preparations. It is..."

Rhaegar held back his tears once more.

"I have seen what is to come. There would be no point in my doing so if we could not change that," Cregan added once more. "Only two things are inevitable."

Almost, for a moment, Rhaegar wanted to jape about taxes being one of those things.

He reached into his fine silver doublet, a drew an iron key. He held the rusted thing in his hand for a moment, looking at it. With a terrible resigned sigh, he placed the key in the lock and turned it. The cell door creaked open, and the barely standing corpse almost fell forwards into his arms, but both of them knew that was a death sentence. Instead, the figure leaned hard against the door frame, taking a few sharp breaths. The Skagosi closed his eye and the torch began to flicker and splutter.

The flames shall burn as long as you live. When they die, so shall you.

Last edited: Jun 4, 2019

"I mostly assumed it was you shitposting but on a level of irony where you had become genuine as well" -Fancy Face

"If you've read any Carcosa fic, you know not to keep your hopes too high." - The Last Bullet

"I know right! Best not to hope for anything, then be surprised by everything." - Alucardan1

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Lost Carcosa

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Threadmarks The King's Landing disaster part 2

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Lost Carcosa

Lost Carcosa

Take off your mask

Jul 31, 2019

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#1,624

"Now, Rhaegar! Come out and Answer!" Brandon shouted, with whatever might of the North he could fit into the throne room behind him. Magnar Guards and Stark Guards, some Manderly Knights that had followed their overlord, some Barrowknights and Cerwyn Axe wielders. Marines from the Stony Shore and the weeping pirates from Widow's Watch. Nearly four hundred warriors of the North having managed to barge into the throne room.

"You will stand down, Lord Stark. The City's Watch has the room surrounded, the seven greatest Knights in the Realm stand upon the dais with me. Lord Magnar is a prisoner of the crown and no bluster or threat shall..." Tywin began, simply stalling for time at this point. His hope had been that the Red Cloaks would be able to at least put some kind of stop to this, but it appeared that the intractable yet imprisoned Lord Magnar had friends of his own in the Gold Cloaks, friends who had allowed his own personal guard and a small amount of the retinue Lord Stark had brought with him to enter the Red Keep.

This was most certainly a declaration of war; the problem was that Tywin did not want to declare it so with Brandon's sword metaphorically at his throat.

"Seven knights. Perhaps a couple hundred of the Gold Cloaks. Pathetic. When my ancestor Cregan Stark descended upon King's Landing two hundred years ago, he didn't debate or argue. He didn't acquiesce or plead. He didn't petition or request. He stormed the city, took the actions necessary to keep the peace and the entire seven Kingdoms together, then left. You hold something of mine Lord Hand, and I want him back," Brandon shouted, Still keeping his Valyrian greatsword in his hands, ready to start swinging and charging the dais, as he had once tried to do so nearly two decades ago.

Tywin wasn't a man who showed fear. He understood it, as a weapon, as a means, as a device to bring about the natural order of things. But it was a rare occurrence when he was the one without overwhelming force. The Ravens had been sent to the Westerlands as soon as news of the Starks moving down the King's Road had reached the capital, but strangely all the Ravens had refused to fly to their correct destinations. Rather than Casterly Rock, Hornvale, The Golden Tooth and Ashemark, one had flown to Driftmark, another had apparently flown off to some destination in the Vale, another to somewhere in the south, and the last had simply remained high in the leaves of the Gods Wood's Oaktree, refusing to come down. Cawing about snow.

And then that White Raven had flown. That was bizarre; White Ravens had always stayed at the Citadel, only flying once every few years to signal the changing of the seasons. This one had flown from somewhere within King's Landing and no one, not a single one of the scouts or Gold Cloaks under his pay, had known where it had gone.

The council chamber door behind the Throne room opened, and King Rhaegar stepped through. He had looked worse than usual. Red bags under his violet eyes, his hair simply thrown back and kept in place by his crown rather than meticulously styled. His cheeks were growing gaunter, and his gait was noticeably slower than usual. He was sick with something. Still, he had enough strength to look at Tywin, gently nod his head and make his way towards the Iron Throne. Knowing better than to argue, the Old Lion stood up off the Throne and gave the seat to the King, moving to stand on his right. Close enough that one might think the Lion was the shadow of the King.

"Lord Brandon. It has been quite some years. Last I sat here, and you stood there, you were the one on trial. Now you demand that of me?" The Silver King asked, keeping his voice light and lilting.

"Last I was here I was guilty. Now you are. Release Lord Magnar into my custody, pay him and me a weregild, and we shall leave this place never to return. Deny me, and I shall have my men cut you and your pets down where they stand and storm the Black Cells myself. I shall burn King's Landing on the way out while I'm at it," Brandon growled. Rhaegar knew him to be a short-sighted fool, but none could deny the Wolf's fury. It had killed Arthur Dayne and countless others before after all. Brandon had been willing to charge and try to kill a King once, what was it to do it again?

"Your loyalty to your friend is commendable Lord Stark, but..." Rhaegar began.

"It is enough, my Lord." Said a hoarse but stern voice. Rhaegar turned slightly, nonplussed as everyone else in the throne room turned and gasped as Lord Magnar stepped out of the council chambers.

Stepped might have been an exaggeration. The man was leaning quite heavily upon a cane of Whitewood, his fingers, arms and legs nearly skeletal. His fancy clothes hung off him like a child wearing a parent's clothes. But his eye and expression showed no sign of weakness, fear or even gratitude towards his liege. Instead, the Skagosi was staring right into him with his sole grey eye.

"News of my incarceration has been greatly exaggerated, and we are all running out of time. Petty squabbles over who arrested whom for what shall wait, for these are the last days. When the world shall be broken..." Cregan coughed into his hand. "We have a nameday to celebrate after all. Prince Aegon's, heir to the Iron Throne."

The skeletal walking corpse of the Lord of Skagos glanced pointedly towards the King, then back to his liege.

"Cregan? Are you... You've looked better," Brandon said, joy entering his voice for perhaps the first time since he had left Winterfell.

"I've been through worse, Brandon. Perhaps we should catch up on our own. There is much we need to discuss," Cregan replied, a small smile playing on his lips, but his sullen and dark expression tainted the image.

Rhaegar almost flinched as Tywin leaned down to talk to him.

"This has been a grave offence. Lord Brandon threatened your life and the lives of everyone in King's Landing. Once he is separated from his men, we should move to..." The Old Lion began, ordering his King. Rhaegar gripped the arms of the Throne, dully noting the lack of pain as his hand was cut open by it.

"I take it this shall be all Lord Stark? This was simply you bringing the Northern delegation to my son's Nameday Tourney? And we shall hear no more of what the Starks shall do again to my city?" Asked Rhaegar pointedly.

Brandon placed the tip of Ice against the stones beneath him and shook his head.

"No your grace. We were simply here for your son's tourney. Lord Triston Magnar will not need to bring the Eastern fleet from around the Fingers," Brandon replied.

Rheagar could hear the proud smile grow on Cregan's face, even as he swore beneath his breath at the recklessness of his son.

"Then you should go to your accommodations and prepare. The Tourney shall be in four days..." Rhaegar turned slightly to look at the Old Lion. "It shall be most illuminating."

For a few seconds, neither said anything.

They were not alone in the tavern. All around them patrons drank and sang, only sparing the slightest glance to the two men dressed in finery, one of whom looking more like a corpse than a man.

It was the corpse that spoke first.

"It'll take months till I'm fit again. I hope Dacey doesn't see me like this. Gonna take some callisthenics, maybe some jogging and..." The Skagosi began before his liege interrupted him.

"What the hell happened Cregan? I know something goes horribly wrong every single time you leave Skagos seemingly, but you getting thrown into the Black Cells was not what I had expected. I thought, sure, you might piss off the King enough to be sent back home, but this?" Asked Brandon, his anger seeping into his voice.

"Short version then," Said Cregan, clasping his hands together before wincing and clicking his joints in them. Even Brandon had to wince, it was not a pretty sight. He was far more used to the roguishly handsome Cregan, one missing eye notwithstanding. This pale corpse was unpleasant to watch even move.

"King Rhaegar is dying. Greyscale shall claim him in a few months. Tywin plots to see his Grandson upon the Throne, Robert has married the Tyrell girl at long last, and Mace and He are united in seizing the Throne from the Targaryens. The Shrouded Lord of the Sorrows is gathering his forces in Chroyane, and the shadows lengthen in Carcosa. I do not know where Euron is, but I know he's coming here eventually. The world is running out of time. The Others, Stone men, Whatever it is Euron and Hastur Chai plan to do, it's all coming to a head now," Cregan explained, unafraid of the looks he was getting, uncaring of the fact that the songs and drinking were dying around him. As even the light within the room seemed to dim.

"These are the last Days, Brandon. I have seen it. There is no Azor Ahai; there is no saviour coming for us. All of these plots are wheels within wheels, mere agents of the End. There is no force upon this Earth that can stand against the end of everything. Not alone at least," Cregan explained.

"Cregan... I've known about the Others, but this... Shrouded Lord? Euron? Whoever this Habster Chai is? What are you talking about?" Asked Brandon. The music had stopped now — the rest of the patrons of the tavern staring in silence at the Skagosi as he spoke again.

"It is difficult. There is some grand game going on Brandon, bigger than you, Rhaegar or I. A game between the Light and Dark. And I think the Light is losing. Brynden is dead. The Children are gone. There is no Daenerys Targaryen to ride in at the last moment and burn the armies of the dead, no single man to kill to put an end to this. Dark Stars are circling the skies and..." Cregan paused, something getting caught in his throat.

"It's all because of me. Had I never left Skagos, Daenerys and Jon Snow would've been born. Brynden would yet live. Dragons would be once more in the world. The end of everything is on me," The Skagosi whispered, terrible guilt pushing down upon him as he slouched in his chair and almost reached for Brandon's ale before stopping himself.

"I don't know who those people are. Dragons are terrible creatures that I'm glad are gone. Cregan, listen to me you fucking sad sack. You've always been like this, always blaming yourself for everything that happens. You are not responsible for the Others, you aren't responsible for whatever the Shrouded Lord of the Sorrows is, whatever it is you think Euron is planning or anything but yourself and your children," Brandon considered something for a moment as it seemed that Cregan hadn't even bothered to listen to him and his words. "It wasn't your fault."

Spoiler: music"Hmm?" Asked Cregan, confusion obvious in his sole remaining eye.

"Lyanna's death. You've been blaming yourself for that one for nearly two decades now. I'll admit, there have been times I've wanted to blame you for it, wanted to hold you accountable for her. But you know what? When I think of that false spring day at Harrenhal, I don't think of you manipulating her into jousting. Heck, she more than likely would've done that no matter what. You didn't make her joust for you. That was Howland Reed. You didn't flee from the North, that was Howland Reed. You didn't kill her. That was Howland Reed. And herself. Had she simply thought about it, practised again with her horse, used her unicorn instead, or even just... Didn't joust, none of this would've happened." Brandon explained, feeling a great weight lift off him as he spoke to his best friend. To the man he had trusted and loved since the two had met and fought and nearly died for each other nearly two decades ago.

"And so what? What would've happened had she lived? I know you know Cregan, why don't you tell me?" Asked Brandon pointedly.

Cregan stared into his lord's two grey eyes, swallowed something in his throat, and began to speak.

"About a year later, Rhaegar would've kidnapped her. You and your friends would go to King's Landing, asking for retribution. Aerys would've killed them. Then you and your father. Then demanded the deaths of Robert and Ned. There would be a great war that would tear apart Westeros, but eventually Rhaegar, Aerys, Rhaella, maybe Aegon and Rhaenys would die. With Viserys and his newborn sister sent into exile. Robert would sit the Throne, and rule for sixteen or so years, before his death would cause a succession crisis that would...," Cregan reached out for a drink, then furrowed his brow and took his hand away. He spoke again, his voice stronger this time. The hoarseness and damage of a month's imprisonment seeming to leave him.

"A succession crisis that would nearly destroy Westeros. Daenerys would hatch three dragons; your family would've either been killed or forced into hiding. Cat would die at her brother's wedding after just having watched her first son die and believing the rest of her children either dead or in Lannister hands. With Winter approaching, thousands, if not millions, would be dead or disposed, and the wars would show no sign of stopping." Cregan continued.

"Cregan. My friend. How many wars have there been in the last twenty years?" Asked Brandon.

The Lord of Skagos seemed to dwell on this question for quite a while.

"There was the Ibbenese/Dothraki wars. The two wars of Skagos. Umm... There's a War going on in Yi-Ti. I know what you're trying to say Brandon but..." Cregan began. He sounded resigned, as if he didn't care about the argument he knew his liege was going to make, but it was no accident of his to leave that pause. He wanted to hear it.

"On Westerosi soil, there hasn't been a real war since the War of the Ninepenny Kings. This is almost the longest stretch of peace in history. Not since Jahaerys the Conciliator... No, fuck that, even that old Targaryen fucker had a few wars. If you are to blame for the Greyscale outbreaks of Essos and whatever else is coming to use, then you are to blame for the millions of men and women and children who are alive because of what you prevented. By accident or otherwise," Said Brandon.

"They'll still die, when the End comes," Cregan said darkly.

"Sure. So shall I. So shall you. So shall everyone eventually. We all die at one point or another. I think there's some saying about that, but I'll be fucked if I know it. But because of you they at least got to live!" Brandon nearly shouted that last part, before turning around and apologising to the now silent tavern. He turned back to his friend and spoke. "Now, I don't want to hear any more talk of the End of Days, of how fucked we are. Because you are Cregan fucking Magnar. You've killed the greatest knight that ever lived, you saved my life, you've sailed to the ends of the Earth, and you fucking died. You've brought Skagos into the Realm. You are the New Stone, and gods fucking dammit Cregan, you're my friend. Fuck prophesy, fuck fate and fuck the Others. If there's a single man I trust more than anyone else on this Earth, it's you. Now, tell me your plan."

"My Plan?" Asked Cregan, a wry smile growing on his face as colour seemed to return to it.

"Don't act coy with me Cregan. I fucking know that despite everything, you've got a plan. You've got two sons and a daughter to look out for, after all. What is your plan?" Asked Brandon.

"All right, Brandon. You're right. I do have a plan. There's a whole bunch of moving parts to it. I need that Expedition to Valyria to go there, I need Rhaegar to... Well, we'll get to that. We need the levies of the North ready to move to the Wall. We need your bastard son and the Daynes. But I do have a plan," Cregan explained with a smile.

"Excellent. Perhaps we should talk about this elsewhere?" Asked Brandon.

The two Northern Lords looked around as the entire tavern stared at them, waiting on bated breath for them to finish.

"Perhaps you're right. Wouldn't want to spoil it for them after all."